


Every Breath You Take

by cakeisnotpie



Series: HunterHawk (Clint Barton and Dean Winchester) [5]
Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supernatural, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: 1983, 80s Music, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Psychological Torture, Small Towns, Time Travel, Violence, big hair bands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2017-12-14 05:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 47,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is part three of the Hunterhawk series. </p><p>Time travel sounds great until you end up stuck in 1983 with big hair bands, glittery gloves, and a nasty monster that has a taste for brains. Dean, Clint, and Sam are running full-tilt to try and change the past in order to save the future from one seriously pissed off Morwen, primal goddess of chaos who wants to set herself up as the only deity humans will ever need. </p><p>Special guest appearances by Tony, Carol, Natasha, and Phil along with our ever favorite Crowley ... and another celestial being.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't You Ever Come Around Here

**Author's Note:**

> One thing I love about writing about a real place is all the details. Clinton, Tennessee is a real little town that I've visited many times over the years (I have relatives who live there) so it's easy to use specifics for stories like this one. Also used to hang out at Lynagh's in Lexington, so I know that place well. 
> 
> Doing something different in this story than the first two. Trying to focus in more on the main characters, less on all the others, and kept the plot tighter. There's a couple OCs here that are based on people I know ... in all, trying to write a Supernatural episode that happens to include Clint Barton. Having a lot of fun with it so far. Hope you do too.

The British Museum was crowded with a Saturday afternoon mixed crowd of tourists, families, and serious historians. Groups met in the marble rotunda, pockets of teenagers roving down the stairs to the restrooms, long line for the café snaking along the East wall. The gift shop was doing a brisk business selling scarves and silver pins, postcards and books. The heaviest traffic flowed into the east gallery, packed twelve deep around the Rosetta Stone, cell phones to their ears, listening to John Cleese narrate the tour’s most popular stop. From there people tapered off, heading for the Sutton Hoo room or the Elgin marbles.

He walked through the crowds and people parted instinctively before his prowling steps, moving out of his way. As if he was wearing an invisibility cloak, no one noticed him – handsome, tall, curly brown hair, cerulean blue eyes, body of an underwear model clothed in jeans and a faded Queen t-shirt – their eyes sliding right past him as they jostled for a place to stop and look at the exhibits. Detouring, he stopped to gaze at the marble reliefs from a Greek temple, a smile on his face as he examined them; he reached out a hand and touched the cool stone, tracing the outline of a figure. No alarms went off, no guards raced forward, no response at all. With a chuckle, he continued on his errand, stepping through a door marked off limits and down a concrete set of stairs; no longer in the public area, the lustrous décor gave way to functionality. Small offices, hermetically sealed preservation rooms, and cataloguing stations filled the hall, but down stairs he went again, to the very bowels of one of the largest museums in the world, into an open space with tall metal shelves, crates and boxes stacked to the ceiling, row upon row of treasures stored away. He knew where he was going – he always did – and soon he turned down the right aisle, rolled a large metal ladder into place and climbed up to the wooden box in question. There was a time when he would have snapped his fingers and been done with it, but power was in scarce supply now, a rapidly dwindling amount shared among too many, and he had every intention of being surviving this new battle, for that’s what it was regardless of what his lazy siblings thought.

Locks meant nothing to him; the box lid opened smoothly despite its age and, nestled in the protective packing straw, he saw his quarry. Slim and supple, the bow was well-preserved, the wood oiled and still intact; he wasn’t surprised that the weapon of a goddess would look as new as the day it was made thousands of years later. What was unusual was dead feel to the weight of the short bow as he picked it up, no aura of power or echo of previous owners. With a muttered curse, he dropped the inert item back into the box and jumped down, temper flaring. Storming out of the Museum, he turned left and strode down the street, crossing Bloomsbury Square, scattering pigeons as he walked. He was too late. Someone had already been there and replaced Artemis’ bow with a fake.

* * *

 

“I deserve a beer and a cheeseburger,” Dean Winchester groused to his brother as they settled into a table near the bar. “Crawling through a spider-infested, rat-trap tunnel was so not on my list of things to do today.”

“Better than getting fileted by the ghost of a jockey bent on revenge,” Sam argued back, taking the plastic menus out of metal holder and handing one to Dean.

“Dude, I wish I had pictures of that little guy going after you. Munchkin vs. Goliath. Get a million hits on YouTube,” Dean was grinning; in the end, they’d both gotten out with only minor scratches and a few bruises, and that was a happy ending to any case. Salt-n-burned bones, no major injuries. A win all around.

“You wouldn’t know how to upload a video, Dean.” It wasn’t really an argument as much as the way the two brothers communicated, ribbing each other in the good times and the bad. “Porn is about all you can manage.”

“Um, can I get you guys something to drink while you study the menu?” The waiter was in his early twenties, probably a grad student at the University of Kentucky just down the street. He must have caught Sam’s last statement because he was trying hard not to laugh. “We’ve got a great selection on beers on tap.”

“I’ll have a Guinness Extra Stout.” Dean ordered. “How’s the Guido’ Round?”

“Messy but good. If you want a burger, the classic O’Round is a ¼ pound of ground sirloin. Best in the Bluegrass.”

“Let’s do it. Medium rare.” Dean dropped his menu and stared at Sam. “Well?”

“I’ll have the Vegwich and a Black Lager.” Leave it to Sam to walk into [an Irish pub](http://www.lynaghsirishpub.com/index.html) and order rabbit food. The waiter nodded at them and left to get their drinks.

“How about we take a vacation?” Dean settled back in his chair, draping an arm over the back and surveying the room. “We’ve done back-to-back cases for the last three months and we deserve some R & R. We can be in Cleveland by tomorrow morning. Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame.”

“So, what’s good? They got a cheeseburger?” Tony Stark pulled up an empty chair, flipped it around and straddled it; he grabbed a menu, waving in the general direction of the bar for the waiter after dropping his backpack on the floor.

“Just make yourself at home.” Dean scooted his chair over to make room as the waiter returned with their beers.

“You have Glenmorangie? Bring the bottle and three glasses,” Tony ordered. “And I’ll have an O’Round, rare.”

“So, how are my two favorite male model crash test dummies?” Tony toed the pack further under the table and took the bottle the waiter, who had obviously recognized the billionaire, brought quickly.  “I saw the news of your handiwork this morning; desecrated graves and burned bones scream Winchester party time.”

“And you just happened to walk into the bar we’re sitting in?” Dean kind of liked Stark, in a strange sort of ‘he’s as annoying as Gabriel but might be useful’ way. The fact that SHIELD, and it seemed the Avengers too, knew far too much about their lives still pissed Dean off, but Stark was more likely to use the information to annoy them.

“Let’s see, cheap motel, black sexy muscle car, good burgers … not that difficult when you’ve got a supercomputer that taps into the street cams.” Tony didn’t sip, he took a good drink of his whiskey; Dean worked on his beer.

“Your need for greasy food **is** well known,” Sam offered, grinning; Dean kicked him under the table, hard.

“Indeed,” Tony laughed. “Love the food blog, BTW. Next time you’re in New York, Donovan’s. I’d like to see you tackle their cheeseburger. Speaking of which, when was Clint’s last entry?”

Say what you will about Tony Stark, he could turn from joking to dead serious on a dime. Dean didn’t have time to answer as the waiter brought their burgers, fries gleaming with hot oil straight from the fryer. Guess being a famous superhero meant better service. The young man sat their plates down – Tony rolled his eyes at Sam’s vegetarian order – and then nervously looked at Tony.

“Excuse me, Mr. Stark, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m a big fan of Dr. Banner’s work on cosmic radiation wavelength variations. I know there are internships at Stark Industries … are any of those specifically working with Dr. Banner?” At the first work, Tony started to preen under the attention, but this his eyes widened and Dean didn’t hide his smirk.

“Actually, I’m not in charge of internships – Pepper won’t let me, something about lawsuits – but I can give you the right name to ask.” Tony jotted down some info on a business card he whipped out of a pocket and handed it over.

“Thank you. Really.” As if he realized what he was doing, the waiter blushed and started to stammer, then turned and went back to the bar.

“Okay, insert joke here and let’s move on, shall we?” Tony stalled Dean’s quip. “Clint. Heard from him?”

Digging his phone out of his pocket, Dean tried connecting to the internet. It took a couple of tries to get the page to load, what with his older phone and slow speed. “18 days ago. Sweet Pea’s BBQ in Knoxville, Tennessee.”

“Mac-n-cheese, right? Nothing since?” Tony pulled a Stark tablet out of his pack and it instantly booted up.

“Look, damn it, if something’s up with Clint, just tell us.” Dean didn’t have time for Stark’s shit; a cold knot was tightening in his gut. It’s not that Clint didn’t go AWOL for months at a time – the man was a secret agent type, after all – but Dean had been feeling that they were all living on borrowed time. Artemis’ bow was still out there and Morwen was only temporarily defeated; the psycho bitch didn’t seem like the type who’d let a defeat go unpunished if she could.

“Problem is, according to SHIELD, Clint’s undercover and out of contact,” Tony sliced his burger in half and picked it up to take a bite after he refilled his whiskey glass and poured shots for both Winchesters. Dean took his and slid his beer aside. “Not unusual for Fury’s little club house to tell us nothing, true, and I do so enjoy crashing his party. Seems they don’t even know if he made it to the location; he hasn’t checked in since receiving the orders. Again, nothing to worry about; it’s happened before.”

“So what makes you think he’s missing?” Sam asked.

“You remember Stephen Strange?” was Tony’s response. Oh, yeah, Dean knew that guy; magic woo-woo stuff, Strange had helped them lock Morwen out of this universe back in D. C. The man creeped Dean out, knowing shit no one else did; plus, magic equals witches and Dean hated it. “Strange called and said Clint was in trouble, and you were the ones to talk to about it.”

“Us? Why?” Dean wasn’t enjoying his burger, which was a shame because the food was really good, but he picked at it, his whole body tense; he was ready to go right now, jump in the car and get on I-75 South. Knoxville was only a couple hours down the road.

Tony handed the tablet to Sam. “Four deaths in the last two months. Reeks of your kind of weirdness. Looks like they simply went to sleep, all peaceful like, but no traces of drugs or any history of illness.” He clicked another tab and the M.E. reports filled the screen. “Nothing in common between the victims – a young mother, a middle-age deer hunter, a grandfather, and a seventeen-year-old drop out.” More documents, more open tabs. Sam was impressed, his mouth slightly open; damn man got a boner for techie stuff, and he was practically drooling at Stark’s computer. “Here’s the fun part, kiddies. Their brains were shrunk to half the normal size, and there were tiny little puncture marks on the back of their necks, little needle marks.” He pushed the tablet over to Sam who wasted no time picking it up, giving the side a little stroke, looking to see if Dean noticed. Dean just grinned at his brother.

“These are in Clinton, Tennessee, just north of Knoxville. Not a wraith with the multiple marks and the peaceful bodies; they usually only leave one, just behind the ear.” Sam read quickly. “You think this is where Clint went?”

“He sent Natasha a quick text not long after he posted that image for Dean, and GPS puts him heading north on Highway 25W, which goes right through Clinton. It’s a place to start.”

“Okay, but why don’t you or Carol or someone check it out? Why would Strange want us?” Dean had been wondering that. SHIELD and Stark had many more resources than the brothers did; finding Clint should be a snap with Tony’s tech.

“Strange said it had something to do with the psycho bitch from D. C. and the world ending which is your bailiwick if I remember. Who knows, the man must have done a little too much LSD; he’s always tripping when I talk to him.” Tony shook his head as Sam started to pass the tablet back. “Nope. Keep it. Carol’s been after me since D. C. to get you something reliable; this puppy’s got all the bells and whistles plus some that haven’t been released yet. Permanent satellite Wi-Fi, for one; should work even underground and I know the reception’s great in the middle of the Atlantic. Completely unhackable, except by me, of course, and logarithms to get into almost any database as long as there’s a net connection.” He drew two phones out of his bag and tossed them on the table. “Starkphones 7.4. Pretty much the same. I programmed in direct lines for Clint and Carol and me, plus Agent … Phil Coulson. Gets five bars at the bottom of the ocean, so you should be okay.”

“Tony, these are …” Sam started, turning the tablet over with a mixture of awe and reverence.

“You think we’re stupid? It’s a way to track us, Sam, know our every move. No thanks.” Dean eyed the phone as if it was a snake that might bite him.

“Oh, Deano, you think I can’t do that now? Would you like me to tell you exactly what kind of pie Clint bought in D. C. and just how much you enjoyed it?” Tony laughed. “Who do you think set up the secure line between the two of you for your little chats? Want a copy of the security camera video?”

“Damn it, Stark, you can kiss my ass. Come on, Sam, we don’t need his shit,” Dean pushed back, angry now, starting to stand and storm off. The man was getting personal; there appeared to be no such thing as privacy from Tony’s prying eyes.

“Sit down, Dean,” Sam ordered and Dean, surprised, sat back down. “You already knew people were tracking us. I’d rather have Clint and Carol at the other end of the information than SHIELD, and we both know Tony is no fan of the government types.  We’re keeping it.” To prove his point, he pocketed the phone and moved the tablet out of Dean’s reach. “Besides, I know all about the pie and the video. You keep forgetting to clear your browser history.”

“My own brother,” Dean huffed, but he picked up the phone. “We’re getting in deeper and deeper, Sam. I don’ like it.”

“Dude, you already made that choice when you got deep in Clint … I mean in deep with Clint.” Tony winked and finished off his burger in one last big bite.

“I knew he was going to be trouble,” Dean grumbled for show, knowing he was going after Clint and he’d take whatever help he could get. The man had been nothing but a problem from the second he’d swung down from the rafters of a barn right in front of Dean – he’d wormed his way into Dean’s life in a way very few people had done. And connections … emotional ones … were a weakness neither Clint nor Dean … nor any of them really … could afford.

“Every damn day, I say the exact same thing,” Tony said, picking up his pack and dropping enough money on the table to cover the whole bill plus an outrageous tip. “He maybe a pain-in-the-ass …” he paused meaningfully and looked at Dean, “…but he’s our pain and I’ll damn well not let anything happen to him on my watch.”

* * *

 

Ace’s Sporting Goods store was deceptive; square red brick, the building’s main entrance was a battered wooden door, tiny windows on either side too small to see much of the interior. The wooden floors were in need of refinishing, wide planks shifting and moving, creaking as he stepped down the two stairs to get inside and avoided the giant stuffed buffalo head and life sized black bear. Small hand lettered signs pointed to the left for guns, to the right for fishing and up to the second floor for archery.  Taking the steps two at a time, Clint emerged in a large room crammed with racks and display cases, stopping to take it all in. Dark wood paneled walls made the space seem confining, and every section not covered by bows or row after row of arrows was plastered with awards and certificates, photos and medals. This place was Nirvana; he recognized all the top brands plus some special orders that he’d love to get his hands on, vintage first generation compound and recurves.

“Can I help you, son?” Wearing a John Deere cap and with his long salt-n-pepper ponytail, the man wore a plaid shirt that snapped up the front, tight to his thin body, old worn jeans, some cowboy boots that looked lived in and well-loved, and a belt buckle that proclaimed he was a Vietnam veteran. His beard was neat and trimmed and he looked Clint up and down with his green eyes.

“Yes, sir, you can. I need to spend as much money as I can before my soon-to-be ex-wife gets her hands on it; been putting off getting a good rig … bow, arrows, whole nine yards … so now is the time.” Clint offered his hand to the man. “Name’s Rick and I see you have some Hoyt TDs over there that look pretty damn good.”

“Bill Oakes,” the man’s grip was firm and his eyes sparkled. “I’ve got TD 3s and 2s. What length?”

“Not the TD3, the adjustable tiller’s shit. A TD 2B, 64 inch would do unless you’ve got something better. Needs to be left handed.” Clint followed Bill over to the counter where he opened a case and took out one of the many bows, laying in front of Clint.

“Got a Bear Kodiak Special Edition if you just want to blow money, but if you want a good bow, the regular Bear Take Down’s a work horse.” He laid a few more out. “You sure about that 64 inch? Might not have a lefty at that size.”

“I’ll take a 62 if we can adjust the risers.” Picking up one, Clint ran his hand over the curve, took an easy stance and drew it back, the light pull no challenge. When he eased the string back, Bill was looking at him.

“Well, if you’ve got the interest, just so happened to get a brand new model, not really supposed to sell it yet, but we could give it a look see.” Smiling, the man headed to the back room. “New Hoyt.”

“The GM? Hell, yeah. Bring it out. Got a range to test fire a few?”

Clint spent a very pleasant two hours not only trying out bows, but a couple very nice firearms before settling on his favorites. All too happy to help out, Bill turned out to be an inveterate gossip; the time was well spent learning the lay of the land, and all of the workers loved the story about the vindictive woman leaving him for supposed greener pastures. He was sure Bill would be telling the tale for a long time to come … the man who bought hunting gear to spite his wife.

The total … two bows, a dozen arrows, three different types of broadheads, quiver, arm guard,  a Glock 17, and a Winchester 70 … brought grins to everyone’s faces, and Clint played it up, handing over the gold American Express card he’d copied off an unsuspecting traveling business man eating at the truck stop out by the interstate. He watched as Bill popped the card in the silver holder, covered it with a form, sliding the black rectangle over it and back before handing the form to Clint to sign. Filling out the paperwork was a snap with the fake driver’s license, and Clint walked out with his purchases, no one the wiser.

He’d had two days now to think through how to survive since he’d fallen through the rabbit hole and woken up to Michael Jackson's “Beat It” on the radio and acid washed jeans with Izod shirts wandering the streets. So much in 1983 worked to his advantage: no computerized background checks or credit card machines to automatically check for theft which gave Clint leeway to figure out what was going on. Thank God for Tony’s paranoia and the emergency pockets filled with cash and other necessities; identity theft was easier, but Clint was glad to have the choice. 

He doubted anyone had noticed he was missing yet. On his way to Cincinnati for a mission, he’d stopped to top off the tank and grab a cup of coffee at a little convenience store, but had never made it back to his black SHIELD issued sedan, the one with his gear in the trunk. All he could remember was the sense that someone was watching him and then, BOOM, glitter gloves and ripped up sweatshirts. First thing he’d done was hitch a ride into the little town of Clinton … the irony of the name didn’t escape him … and find a used car lot where some cash had gone towards a [1974 Chevy Nova SS](http://www.chooseyouritem.com/classics/photos/296000/296259-3.1974.Chevrolet.Nova.Custom.2-Door.Coupe.jpg). Damn fine car if not in the best condition; Dean would be jealous and that lead to some interesting little fantasies that distracted him for a few minutes as the engine growled. He argued them down since someone had painted the muscle car a nasty puke green.

Along with his new car and weapons, Clint now knew that there had been three mysterious deaths that were right up the Winchester’s alley … and might just provide an answer for his own predicament. At least it gave him something to do. Starting the engine, and revving it once until she protested with a rattle, he headed over to the police station to check in. There was SHIELD in the 1980s after all, and Clint thought if anyone would understand, they would. Maybe Tony too, but Stark had never mentioned any earlier meeting with Clint. Of course, he might have kept it secret … nah, not Tony. Damn. All this thinking about the rules of time travel was threatening to ruin Clint’s good mood. So he revved the engine one more time, patted a hand on her dashboard, and peeled out of the parking lot.

* * *

 

“Hey, the view is nice,” Dean said as they dumped their bags the [Ridgeview Motel](http://farm1.staticflickr.com/163/439052342_2040026984_z.jpg) room.  The décor left a lot to be desired, but it was the only motel actually in the small town; the rest were out by the interstate. Dean had wanted to stop at the [Christmas Inn](http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4069/4577644536_c087667176.jpg) in Caryville because _Christmas Inn_ , he’d argued, but Sam had vetoed it as too far away. Sam had been busy on his new tablet as Dean drove over Jellico Mountain, oohing and aahing until Dean had to smack him in the shoulder to shut him up about that damn computer and the Wi-Fi. Dean suspected Sam would be going on about it for days if not weeks; he’d gotten into the police files, pulling up docs that they normally would have had to lie and steal to get their hands on, reading through them all.

“The main detective on the case said she’d be working late, and we could come by after we meet with the M.E.” Sam’s fingers tapped on the tablet; he hadn’t let the thing go for over two hours now. “We can split up and cover more ground.” He tossed Dean a small compact mirror. “Don’t forget the silver knife.”

Like Dean would do that. Last time they’d run into a wraith, they’d been in a sanitarium and the bitch had almost gotten Sam and had left both of them delusional. Even though the reports on the victims didn’t mention those going crazy or seeing things before they died, it never hurt to be prepared. Boy Scout Dean always prepared. Which reminded him, he needed to restock the wallet for when they found Clint. Despite his best efforts, Dean seemed to have little to willpower when it came to that man.

A short drive and they were at the county courthouse right near Main Street – yes, the town had a Main Street with an honest-to-god drugstore with a lunch counter! – and both the police and the coroner’s office were in the same complex of buildings. Sam took the M.E. and Dean headed into find Detective Oakes, a middle-aged woman with soft curly brown hair, tortoise shell glasses, and a little bit too much weight around her middle. Her desk was cluttered with paperwork, an older model computer, and pictures of a golden retriever and a Siamese cat. She looked up as he approached and slid her brown eyes over his body, cocked an eyebrow and lifted the corner of one side of her mouth.

“Can I help you?” She seemed highly amused as she stood and offered Dean her hand.

“Agent Simmons, F.B.I. My partner, Agent Stanley, called you earlier; he headed over to talk to Dr. Hardin since we’re getting a late start today. I wanted to ask you a few questions about the recent spate of deaths you’re investigating.” Dean knew the second he finished his spiel that she didn’t buy it because she actually laughed out loud and squeezed his hand before she let it go.

“Nice one, Gene. But I was a big AC/DC fan when you were still a baby.” She offered him a chair. “I was told to expect the Winchesters this evening and ordered to talk to them. You’re Dean, by the description I got.”

“Expected?” He asked, perplexed as he sat down, thrown off his stride.

“You have friends in high places it seems. The State Police Commissioner called my boss.” She pulled open a file folder. “Doesn’t really matter. I’ll take all the help I can get on this case. It’s personal to me.”

“You know one of the vics?” Dean asked, leaning over to see the crime scene photos she laid out for him. Four bodies, looking for the world like they were sleeping peacefully, each in a different location.

“Small town, so, yeah. Angie Canady, just had her first baby last fall, goes to my zumba class. Murray Martin fell into drugs a couple years ago, was trying to get clean; I went to high school with his dad, Bernie. Robert Tomsic, pillar of the community, deacon at Second Baptist Church where I teach Sunday School. And Todd Anderson, works for my dad.” She passed over each file as she named them. “But that’s not why. 1983, six people died from the exact same wounds over the course of one summer. A mother, a middle aged man, a grandparent, a teenager, a little girl, and a cop. My brother was the teenager who was killed.”

“I’m sorry,” seemed the right thing to say. “Must be difficult to look at these.”

“Trust me, I’ve poured over my brother’s case file so many times, these look familiar. That’s one of my problems. I need some fresh eyes to see what we missed. In ’83, there killing simply stopped; the theory was always that the murderer moved on to somewhere else, but I don’t buy it. Soon as the FBI’s new database came online, I ran the particulars through to look for matches and got a series of hits, every four years, always six victims in small towns. But 1983 was the first set of deaths, and now it’s happening again here.”

Dean‘s brain was working on connections; they’d seen this before, monsters that came back to the same feeding grounds, even creatures who repeated at intervals of years at a time. Usually, that meant they had a connection to this place. 1983 must be important – like a rugaru who came of age or a vampire newly made, something had happened in this town in that year. He glanced up to see the detective watching him with suspicious eyes; she sensed he knew more than he was telling her. A woman driven by her brother’s death, probably right into a job in law enforcement to find justice, might turn out to be a problem.

“I did find some other cases of deaths with decreased brain fluid and one puncture mark behind the ear, but there were signs of drug use in those cases.” Marie turned and pulled up another screen; Dean didn’t flinch when he saw Ketchum, Oklahoma. He already knew everything he needed to about that case. “That’s why you’re here, right? You think the same thing or something similar did both of these?”

“Thing? Don’t you mean person?” That little word choice didn’t slip past Dean; Marie was already jumping to the logical conclusion most people avoided. When you do away with the probable, what’s left, no matter how improbable, must be the answer. Sherlock Holmes, Dean thought, that’s who said it. In a world were monsters lived next door, most people didn’t want to see the truth in front of them because, as a wizard-for-hire Dean had run into once liked to say, monsters aren’t real. They can’t be. If they are, people would have to spend their lives in a state of constant fear.

“I’m open to all possibilities.” Marie leaned forward, a serious stare aimed right at Dean. “Heaven and Earth, Horatio, as Hamlet says.”

“We’ve ruled out the same perpetrator,” Dean leveled with her. “No delusions and insanity; the thing that killed the people in Glenwood Springs Psych Hospital liked to play with them first, feed on their fear – different brain chemistry. This is too peaceful and there are multiple marks. But I’d bet anything there’s going to be two more who fit the pattern; we just have to figure out who.”

“Before a little girl dies, yeah, I’m aware of that,” the detective said as fatigue wiped across her face. She’d been working hard and it showed. “I just don’t know where to start.”

“Actually, I have an idea.” Dean’s words revived her; the possibility of a new lead to follow grabbed her interest. “Can you find out if a black Dodge Charger, 2013, government plates, has been found abandoned in the area in the last couple weeks?”

She tilted her head and gave him a quizzical look, but didn’t ask the obvious question, instead picking up her phone and dialing an extension. “Harry? You still there? Anybody impounded a black Dodge Charger …. Yeah, government plates … with what? A bow and arrows? …. SHIELD ... Thanks, I’d appreciate it … where? … okay. No more than 15 if we do … Yeah, I’m on for carpool Tuesday and Thursday … Get your own, buddy.”  She made her goodbyes and hung up and sat quietly waiting for Dean to fill in the blanks.

“SHIELD Agent Barton was last heard from traveling on 25W.” That was enough for Dean to offer.

“SHIELD? That explains the Commissioner’s phone call. You could have just said so,” she seemed miffed by Dean’s lack of trust. “Mark out at the [Git Go](https://www.facebook.com/pages/Git-N-Go-Market-and-Deli/232653333446007) on Old Clinton Highway called it in twelve days ago. There was very little to go on, just a corporation name on the registration and insurance; it’ll go up at auction if no one claims it. Along with the very expensive equipment inside the trunk.”

“Ah, hell, that’ll piss him off. You couldn’t let me take it?” God, but Clint loved his bow and he’d rip a new one to anybody who messed with it.

“I was told full cooperation, whatever you need. Want to take a stroll back to the motor pool?” She rose and stretched. “I’ve been sitting here far too long. A drive out to the Git Go sounds like a plan; they installed video cameras last year after that string of robberies; just kids after drug money, but they did some serious property damage.”

* * *

 

“1983. Marie is copying the files now. Meet me at the car and we’ll put it all together.” Dean carefully loaded the bow case into the back of the Impala, swinging in the black backpack with Clint’s tablet and extra set of TAC gear. Man traveled light, almost as little as Dean and Sam. Came from being on the road all the time; Dean didn’t need much, in truth, and having to pack and unpack all the time made paring down necessary. “Yes, I’m sure you can find them on your new girlfriend. You going to sleep with her on the first date?” Shutting the door, Dean laughed at Sam’s response. “No, I’ve got a perfectly good phone. Why do I need a new one?”

The smallest of sounds, a tiny stir of air – Dean dropped the older flip phone from his ear and turned his head; the street lamp cast a bright spotlight on the parking lot, glinting off of the light bars of the patrol cars.

“Dean?” Sam was saying. “You still there?”

“Something’s up. I’m going to …”

A flutter and a breeze, Dean blinked, and he was on his back, looking at the late afternoon sun. Gravel crunched and a pair of black boots stopped by his head; shielding his eyes, Dean squinted as someone leaned over him, blocking the light.

“Dean. Miss me that much?” Clint smiled and offered him a hand up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Dean run into some familiar faces in 1983 while at the mercy of teenage girls' music choices. Sam reaches out to someone new for help, and I get to play with backgrounds and canonical beginnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A word about the Hunterhawk Cake!verse: this world follows SPN canon right up until the end of season 5 -- then dramatically veers away. In a nutshell, Gabriel turned out not to be dead (well, there was this Casa Erotica DVD that Ben got a hold of ...), he and Cas retrieved Sam and Adam from the pit, albeit without their souls (and Gabe had some fun at Lucifer and Michael's expense). Adam choose to return to Heaven to be with his mother, and one day Dean and Sam entered their hotel room to find a teenage Jesse Turner who, in gratitude for saving him from his destined role in the apocalypse, fixes Sam's brain. Meanwhile, Crowley becomes King of Hell and sets about consolidating his power while Heaven is in disarray, secretly colluding with Raphael to locate a way to open Purgatory .....
> 
> Yeah, I think about it a lot. Anyway, you'll see why this is important in this chapter where I get to play loose and fast with backgrounds and canons 'cause I'm the author and can do shit like that. :)

**_NOW_ **

The Impala sat unlocked under the street light in the parking lot; Sam circled the car one more time, palming Dean’s cellphone into his pocket. Clint’s bow case and duffle were in the back seat, but no Dean. It was like he’d simply vanished between one breath and the next; Sam had heard the phone hit the ground and then nothing.

“Can I help you?” The middle aged woman stopped just outside the police station’s door, looking him over. With a gun on her belt and a badge clipped next to it, she was probably a detective.

“Actually, this is my partner’s car and I’m looking for him. Agent Simmons?” He was getting worried. First Clint, now Dean. In his experience, coincidences didn’t happen, and those specific two people? It was fishy, to say the least.

“Oh, you must be Sam.” She held out her hand. “Marie Oakes. Dean left not more than fifteen minutes ago to find you.”

Sam blinked at her use of their names, but Dean must have had a reason to give them to her. “I was on the phone with him and he just dropped out.”

“Well, lucky for you that we have real time video of the lot.” She held the door open for him. “The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, now your brother?” Since she seemed to know more about things that he did, Sam followed her back into the station, sure that this business was only going to get messier.

**_1983_ **

“Oh, god, not the 80s.” Dean sat in the booth of the tiny pizza parlor across the street from the courthouse watching a gaggle of teenage girls drop quarters into the jukebox. He winced when the first notes of [Rick Springfield’s “Affair of the Heart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VmVD5_ddVGQ)” started playing; they could have at least picked Poison or Journey or something beside a _Teen Beat_ heartthrob.

“Oh come on, I bet you looked really cute in your sparkly glove and socks.” Clint sipped his beer and tapped his fingers in time to the music just to annoy Dean. He did so enjoy annoying Dean. Pay back for Dean looking damn fine in his suit pants with his white shirt sleeves rolled up and his tie loosened.

“Dude, I was … I AM 4-years-old,” Dean shot back and a shadow settled in his eyes. He turned away and shifted in his seat; Clint remembered that Dean’s mom died in November of 1983. Somewhere, right now, a little Dean was living with his parents and his baby brother, blissfully unaware of demons and hell and monsters. It was a sobering thought.

“Let’s see, I’m almost 10 and just joined Carson’s. We ran away from the orphanage in the summer of ’82.” He eased his leg over until he was touching Dean’s under the table, rubbing gently without looking at him.  His shoulders rose and fell, and then Dean cocked his head, the memory passing.

“We, old man?” he asked, lips curling up in a smile. The waitress brought their pizza over, smiling at them; Brenda, as the name tag proclaimed, snatched up their empty bottles to get them another round, the model of efficiency. Probably because she knew she had a better chance at a good tip from them than from all the teenagers in the joint.

“Barney and I were still together.” Clint reached for the biggest piece of the loaded pie, but Dean beat him to it, so Clint dragged two over to spit him. “Maybe I could call him; the circus wintered in Destin, Florida. Warn him.” There was his own shadows, the memory of Barney at that age, still young enough to think a good life was possible, with hope for a better future, before things changed.

“Yeah, no, that doesn’t work. Tried it.” Dean shook his head, brushing a hand along Clint’s thigh in sympathy. “Destiny or fate or some shit, according to the dickless angels. No matter what I did, the bad stuff still happened.”

“You’ve done this before? Time travel?” Even Clint had to admit the girls’ choice in music was terrible when the ballad “Tonight, I Celebrate My Love for You” blared out of the speakers. He groaned.

“Yep. Hopped the angel train twice back to the ‘70s and fucked things up royally. That’s why I prefer to stay in my own timeline.” Dean took a large bite of the still steaming hot pizza and frantically waved his hand in front of his mouth. “Damn angels,” he mumbled as he chewed.

“They can travel in time?” Clint asked, being a little more judicious as he ate. As far as he knew, you could travel through dimensions, even jump forward any number of years, but time travel into the past was scientifically impossible. But, hey, he used to think ghosts and vampires were too.

“Only way I know to do it. But they’re all caught in the mess upstairs after the big Lucifer rumble. With big brother Mike and Luci trapped in the pit, there’s no one in charge up there.” Dean shrugged at Clint’s look; the man just casually talked about heavenly politics as if it was everyday knowledge. “Hey, you know aliens and super villains, I know angels and demons.”

Squeals of delight when the first notes of [“True” by Spandau Ballet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AR8D2yqgQ1U) started; Dean winced as even more girls joined the first group, pulling two other tables over. They were all wearing black track shorts and white baseball shirts with orange sleeves; the back of the shirt proclaimed ‘Color Guard.’ Some of the older girls, maybe 17 or 18 at the most, eyed the two men at the table, and then turned, whispering to the others. More glances and giggles rolled through the group. Great, Clint thought. Now they had groupies.

“So, angels? How do we know if they’re involved?”  Clint snagged a second piece of pizza and tried to ignore the attention from the gaggle of girls. Dean seemed unbothered by the whole thing.

“You simply ask,” the man standing by the table answered. Clint’s gun was halfway out of his waistband when Dean laid a hand on his wrist, pushing it back down under the table.

 “Damn it, Cas,” Dean said, exasperation lacing his words. “What have I told you about appearing in public?” He kicked a chair out and nodded towards it. The khaki trench coat hung open over the man’s rumpled suit and loose tie; he was waiting, inhuman in his stillness. Damn cute, if you were into impossibly blue puppy dog eyes, dark curly hair, a runner’s lean body, and a world weary weight on his shoulders

“I came in through the door,” Cas insisted as he sat down. The conversation was easy and familiar, the banter of two people who knew each other well. A knot settled in Clint’s stomach; who was this guy to Dean? “I apologize for surprising you, Clinton.”

“Clint,” he offered; Dean rolled his eyes. “And you are?”

“Castiel, an angel of the Lord.” Clint just accepted that it was true. Why not? Gods and ghosts and aliens and magic … what was an angel with a dry wit but par for the course? He knew Dean had been involved in averting the apocalypse, the heavenly epic throw down, but an angel sitting in a pizza joint brought the reality of it all home. And the fact that Dean was comfortable around this guy? He didn’t want to think about competing with divine power. Hell of an ex-boyfriend. 

Some of the girls wondered by the table, heading for the bathrooms in the back, passing very close to Dean’s chair. Castiel blushed and dropped his eyes. “What is that look for?” Dean asked the angel.

 “Those girls were thinking impure thoughts about you,” the angel said in a low voice. “Very loudly too. Does the pizza have anything to do with it?”

“Yeah, well, this isn’t porno, dude; they’re teenagers. It’s what they think about.” Dean brushed it off, but Castiel kept watching the girls with concern in his eyes. “I’m more interested in why we’re in the era of shoulder pads and Joan Collins.”

“I was the one who brought you both here.” The angel turned his attention back to them and dropped that little bomb without even a flinch.

 “You? Why? I thought you were busy with the chaos upstairs.” Dean leaned in, frustration in his eyes.

“There have been some changes in Heaven,” Cas spoke, choosing his words carefully. “The new hierarchy has determined we can no longer afford to ignore what is happening on the Earth when events may affect all of us.”

“What does that mean?” Dean asked. Clint was only halfway following the conversation; he didn’t really care about angels or heaven, just why the hell they were here. But he sat back and let Dean question the angel, watching their body language … or lack thereof in Castiel’s case. Dean was clearly used to the angel’s eccentricities, but still annoyed and exasperated by his answers.

“A new power is interfering, changing the balance established by my Father. That cannot be allowed.” Cas reached down for a slice of pizza; the others had stopped eating, distracted by the angel’s announcement. As Brenda returned, Cas took Dean’s beer and very courteously asked for another. “One of the first battles angels waged was to cast out all those who sowed chaos; we were tasked with ensuring they didn’t return.”

“Morwen.” Clint stated the obvious; they’d already run into the goddess, once via proxy and a second time after she took the form of Carol Danvers. “She’s eating up all the other gods’ power. A real piece of work.”

“Yes.” Castiel nodded in agreement. “She is a bitch.”

Clint blinked and Dean laughed.

“Is that not the correct word?” All innocence … honestly … Castiel looked confused.

“It fits her fine,” Dean told him. “So you know her?”

“It’s in the scriptures, Dean. The scribe Enoch wrote about those assigned to watch mankind who corrupted you instead, setting themselves up as rivals to God. Morwen was one of the first and most powerful; she brought magic into the world, the pure energy of chaos, and she played on men’s vanities. Michael and Uriel led the battle to lock them all away; the destruction was immense. Only a few faithful survived.”

“Wait … you’re talking Old Testament destruction? Like Noah and the flood?” Clint asked. Dean raised an eyebrow in question, like he didn’t expect Clint to know any of this. “Hey. When you deal with crazy shit all the time, you read, okay? Been catching up on moldy gods and goddesses since Hecate and Hera dropped in. The flood is a common theme in a lot of cultures.”

“Exactly. The very face of the Earth itself was changed. The watchers had children with humans, giving birth to monsters. Many joined with us to end the threat: gods, demons, and humans.” Obviously, Cas liked pizza because he was polishing off the rest while Clint was trying to process all the information.

“I thought Eve was the mother of all monsters?” Dean protested. “Are you saying she was human once and got it on with one of these watchers?” Okay, there was another name to ask Dean about later; Clint though Eve was Adam’s wife.

“She was seduced and given a twisted power of creation, yes. Giants, vampires, titans … all of them came about in the same way.” Cas looked longingly at the empty silver platter. “This is good pizza. I have missed human food.”

“So, you’re saying that Morwen is the mother of all witches, the great aunt of the Mother of All Monsters, the, what? …. Aunt? … of the Titans? Fucking hell, Cas.” Dean rolled his eyes. “And more powerful than all of them?”

“Yes.” He seemed satisfied that they understood, but Clint was still thinking it all through.

“So, why drag us here to 1983?” Clint asked. All of this background was nice, but that was the million dollar question. “You said she was interfering?”

“She’s trying to break back through into this universe after you successfully expelled her; we can narrow the energy she’s using down to this place and time, but she’s hidden the rest. That’s why we need you to figure out what her plan is.” Cas’s face grew even more serious, something Clint didn’t think was possible. “The two of you have the best chance to stop her, given the improbability of your relationship.”

“Improbability?” Clint prodded for more; yes, the two of them weren’t a model couple, that was for sure. Hell, they weren’t even a _couple_ couple, more like a _sometimes_ couple, but improbable? Cas turned sympathetic eyes on him.

“I’m sorry, but you should never have met.” Cas sighed. “When Morwen began to collect powerful icons, she set in motion a chain of events that brought you into each other’s spheres of influence. We actively try to keep people like you apart unless the danger warrants the risk.”

“Whoa, whoa, what?” Dean demanded, confused and angry.  “People like us?”

“Some people are catalysts, meant to set events in motion or alter the path of human history; they are usually lone individuals, heroes if you will, who are called upon in times of great struggle. Put two such people together, and you have a focal point that represents a danger for the structure of the universes; they can send ripples through multiple dimensions,” Cas explained, looking at Dean. “You and Sam, for example, had to be together to play your roles in the apocalypse, and you can see the power of two catalysts working towards the same goal. Add Clint Barton into the mix, and the very fabric of time itself could become unstable. There have never been three of you working together that didn’t end in disaster.”

**NOW**

Sam drained the last drops from his paper cup, more caffeine to keep going; he couldn’t sleep, not until he found something that would help find Dean and Clint. The video footage had been monumentally unhelpful. Dean, on the phone, standing by the car, walked out of the camera range, the lens trained on the entrance of the station and the end of the lot. Sam and Marie had looked over it with a magnifying glass at least ten times before Sam finally left with a copy on his tablet. For a change of pace, he poured over the information on the murders he’d gotten from the ME and Marie, thinking something had to be in the details, a connection. But he had hit a wall; words were running together and the crime scene photos were blurs in his memory.

He’d called Bobby first thing when he got back to the hotel with his deli sandwich from the same Git Go that Clint had disappeared from; giving him the particulars, Sam knew Bobby would start researching. After a few moments hesitation, he pulled up the number on his new phone and hit dial, waiting through the four rings until Carol’s voice told him she couldn’t come to the phone. He tried not to sound awkward, but leaving a message for a woman who was a superhero, as well as a past lover, wasn’t the easiest thing to do. Honestly, he’d been sure she wouldn’t answer; the last message he’d gotten from her indicated she’d be out-of-contact for a month or so, off on some Avenger business, but it felt right to start with her. Then he turned to the internet, the stable connection a godsend – no, Tony Stark wasn’t a god, but he was damn brilliant – instant access to the Library of Congress and the British Library offering up a wealth of older manuscripts. The University of Montana had a witchcraft and magic section of their archives that was unrivaled; he’d never been able to get permission to use it, but Bobby had once or twice. Now it was available with the tap of a finger. Still, it took most of the night to find even the briefest reference to something similar; finally, in an 8th century monk’s history of the Roman Empire, he ran across a story of a monster who stole memories, eating the ‘soup’ of the soul, an ancient belief that brain fluid held the key to the self. Then, in a copy of Middle Eastern poetry, he found another, a reference to the First Shadow who needed the strength of others to become whole. That sent him down another avenue of research, looking at Egyptian magic surrounding the resurrection of mummies.  Dean would have quoted the movie, made some joke about librarians, but the Book of the Dead was a real magical artifact and in a scan of one of the few surviving pages, he found notes about the power to stealing a person’s soul. Interestingly, while fear might make the fluid taste better, a relaxed victim gave more revitalizing energy.

When Bobby called back, he had even worse news; not only were they looking for an ancient monster who was sucking brains dry, the only thing that could do these things was the Alpha Wraith – but according to legend, some moldy Greek hero killed it as one of his tests of will. No one had heard of it since B.C. years, or B.C.E. or whatever new dating system they were using at the moment. So either they were looking at the ghost of the original, a raised from the dead pissed-off big bad, or the Alpha had been somewhere else all this time.. All of the above were not good, and none of them explained where Dean and Clint had gone.

“I’m telling you, Bobby, I’ve got a real bad feeling about this,” Sam said into phone. “I think it’s all related. We met Clint the first time when the vampires and zealots were after Hecate’s pin. Then we were together again in D. C. and it was werewolves, revenants, Carol possessed by Morwen, and Hera’s bowl. Now Clint and Dean are missing, we’ve got an Alpha wraith … Morwen is going to pop up at any minute. And something else. There’s always one more thing.”

“I agree with you, boy. I’ve got a call in to a scholar I know might could be able to help us, but he’s out of the office until Thursday. I’ll keep trying. You work on your end and see if you can find this dried up old wraith. You remember how to kill ‘em, so don’t go out unarmed,” Bobby said. “Too bad you don’t have better video of the disappearances, both of ‘em.”

After he hung up, Bobby’s words echoed; despite having cameras as the gas station Clint stopped at, the tape was set on an automatic rewrite every week, so there’d been nothing to see. If he had some way to get better …. Before he could think it out more, Sam was dialing Tony Stark’s number; a very short and very snarky message came on after seven rings, so Sam hung up with saying anything. There was one other option; a voice picked up on the second ring.

“Sam Winchester?”

It occurred to Sam that he hadn’t checked the time; it was 3:47 a.m. where he was. “Um, yes. I’m sorry to bother you; I didn’t realize the time.”

“That’s not a problem. Do you have news about Agent Barton?” Whoever this was, he was definitely concerned and sounded wide awake.

“Sort of. My brother Dean disappeared late yesterday from the Courthouse parking lot in Clinton, Tennessee. I think the same thing happened to him that happened to Clint. He’d just found Clint’s car in the police compound lot. I tried calling Carol earlier, and Tony just a few minutes ago, but neither answered.”

“Carol is out of range of communications,” he told Sam. “And Tony’s in transit. Tell me what you need.”

“Is there any way to get satellite imagery of the locations where they were taken? I know exactly when Dean vanished – we were on the phone at the time – and we can narrow Clint’s down to a window of about six hours.”

“I’ll have the data for you in less than an hour. Infrared, topographical … whatever I can get my hands on.” Sam could hear papers shuffling and sounds of movement. “Tony gave you the new tablet, right? It can handle the files Jarvis will send to you. Anything else?”

“Ah, yeah, well, Tony sort of listed you under ‘Agent.’ Do you mind telling me your name?” Sam felt stupid for asking, but he’d like to know.

“Phil Coulson. Call me any time. I’ll do whatever I can to get Clint back.”

Sam remembered him then, the man in the dark suit who’d picked Clint up in Pennsylvania; he’d sent the pic of Dean and Clint kissing. With a few taps, Sam changed the contact name to Phil.

**1983**

 “I have to go.” Cas shifted his chair back from the table and stood. “There are still factions pushing for even greater change; I can’t be away for too long.”

“Oh, no, you can’t drop a bombshell like that walk away!” Dean grabbed Cas’s wrist, wrapping his fingers around until the tips touched each other, pissed with the whole situation. The jukebox began a new song; [Bob Seeger](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QsnZMee16lk) sang about some men going crazy and some going slow. Dean agreed that you never really knew a man until you’d stood beside him, and he and Cas had covered each other’s back before. There was more to this than the angel was telling.

“You knew you were Michael’s vessel, Dean. Why is it difficult to believe others might be important as well?” Cas was puzzled by the reaction. Once again, it was the same old shit; angels do what they want and don’t bother to tell the people involved a damn thing. Dean was more than done with divine intervention and Cas not spilling all the beans, but he knew that forcing him wouldn’t work. Cas would tell him eventually.

“Wait. If we stop her here in 1983, then do we cause a rip in the time/space continuum?” Clint asked in a level voice. Dean started to razz the other man about watching too much TV, but then it would be the pot calling the kettle black, wouldn’t it? Truth was, he was just as worried about it as Clint seemed to be. What if they succeeded in stopping Morwen here in this time? What effects would that have on their time … on the two of them?

 “That depends upon you,” Cas said. “If she succeeds here, then the future will be different. If not, things remain as they were. As to the two of you, what is done cannot be undone.” He cocked his head as if listening to an unheard voice. “I know you can figure this out.” With that statement of support, he headed for the door; about half of the teenage girls had left, but the ones still there watched him go. A black haired girl blushed when she realized Dean noticed her and ducked her head to whisper to another friend.

“God damn it, the whole ‘works in mysterious ways’ shit gets old after a while.” Dean finished off his beer and dug into his pocket for his wallet; the driver’s license and credit cards were useless, but the whole bill was less than a twenty even with a good tip. He tossed the money on the table and stood. “I think I know where to start.”

Clint followed him up the concrete stairs and out into the parking lot; Dean stopped and had to smother a laugh, putting a hand on Clint’s chest to keep him from stepping out of the shadows of the overhang. Doors ajar, three of the girls were dancing on a [Toyota Corona](http://www.toyotareference.com/colors/corona/toyota_corona_79_372_03.jpg), one on the roof, another on the hood, the last one on the trunk. The theme from the movie[ _Flashdance_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ILWSp0m9G2U) was blasting through the speakers as they spun around. Dean watched them for a moment; he’d never been that young and innocent, running on pure emotion without caring about who was around. At the same age, he’d been hunting already, taking care of Sam and worrying about his dad.

“Thinking about sex one minute then being a kid the next. Wonder what that was like?” Clint murmured; his body was near, close enough to feel the warmth of his exhale.

“Wouldn’t know,” Clint answered. The idea to lean back hit Dean, to narrow the distance between them, but he hesitated; it really wasn’t the time or place, not when anyone could walk up. Still, he felt the briefest touch of Clint’s hand on the small of his back, comforting fingerprints lingering.

A [Dodge Omni](http://hooniverse.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/horizonus_01.jpg) pulled in the lot and parked; a man emerged, wearing a camouflage hat, a snap up plaid cowboy shirt and beat up old boots with his jeans. The girls, taken up in the music, kept dancing, long brown hair flying as the girl on the top spun; the one on the hood giggled and bouncing, shaking her curly hair and the car itself.

“Ladies?” The man spoke.

“Dad!” The girl on the hood immediately stopped and slid off, standing in her bare feet. The other two clambered down, one of them shutting off the music. “Um, we were just …”

“Disturbing the peace? You know the police are just across the street,” he said with a smile, obviously not too upset. “You ready to go or do I need to pay the bill, Marie Elise?”

“Oh, I forgot.” Marie ducked her head into the open door and came back out with her pocket book. “I can …”

“I’ll take care of it while you put the bags in the car.”

Dean took that as a sign to move and scuffed his feet on the last step, sensing Clint following.

“Bill,” Clint held out his hand and crossed to the man. “Nice to see you again.”

“Rick! How’s it going?” They shook hands and Clint turned to introduce them.

“Bill Oakes, my brother Dean. Dean, Bill Oakes, a man who really knows his bows.”

It clicked in his head, and he couldn’t help but glance over at the teenager plucking a small duffle out of the trunk of the Toyota. Marie Oakes, future police detective, was laughing with her friends.

“Nice to meet you,” he responded, his brain at work putting together the pieces.

“He’s going to help me move some furniture this weekend,” Clint supplied with a wink.

“Ah, of course. Well, Rob Norton runs a nice storage facility out by the interstate If you need some space, and he’s very low key,” Bill said. “I better get in there and settle up; they say teenage boys eat you out of house and home, but girls are just as bad.”

Dean didn’t ask, not until they were in the Chevy, and Clint turned onto the main street. “Okay, brother I get, but furniture?”

“Bill might have the idea that I’ve got a soon to-be ex-wife I’m trying to stiff. Explains why I bought a bow, a handgun, and a rifle this afternoon,” Clint explained.

“Well, I spent a few hours talking to his daughter earlier today before Cas did his time travel hop. Seems little Marie Elise grows up to be Detective Marie Oakes of the Clinton Police Department,” Dean said as Clint turned the car across the bridge over the Clinch River. “She’s the lead investigator on three murder cases. Interestingly enough, they follow a similar pattern to six deaths that happened in …. Drum roll, please … 1983.”

“Bodies look like they went to sleep, but brain fluid at really low levels?” Clint spun the wheel, the suspension squealed in protest, and they turned into the parking lot of the Ridgeview Motel.

“You are kidding me?” Dean laughed. “Please tell me you’re not in room 8.”

“Three. Why?” Clint pulled into a parking space. “Ah … you and Sam are here too? Were here. Will be here? Damn verb tenses.” He turned off the car and the engine rattled a few seconds too long. “Tell me about the murders.”

“There will be six of them in 1983, the first time they happened. Will happen. Whatever.” He didn’t have anything, just his new phone in his pocket and the papers he’d stuffed into his jacket. One of the bullet points on his to do list was stopping by a store to buy some clothes; Clint seemed to have the cash flow problem worked out, but there wouldn’t be a Walmart nearby. “How many so far?”

Clint unlocked the door to the room and tossed his key on the dresser under the mirror; the room, shabby when Dean and Sam checked in, was in much better shape in this time, clean and less threadbare. “Three. A young mother, a middle aged man, and an elderly retired woman.”

Taking out the copies of the files Marie – the older version – had given him, Dean laid them out on the small round table in front of the window. “That puts … hell, the next victim is Marie’s brother, John David Oakes. He’s 15 and will die tomorrow at 4:47 p.m.; his body is found down by the creek behind the high school gym. That’s why she becomes a cop.” He handed the picture over to Clint.

“Hell of a place to start.” Clint looked at the image of the dead boy with his hands folded over his chest, seemingly asleep and at peace. “That gives us a day to see what else we can find. I can’t really work the F.B.I. or cop angle, but you can be my brother the agent?”

“Reporter, maybe. Come to town to help you and see the story, reminds me of one I’ve covered before.” Dean nodded; that might work since he’d done the journalism angle before. Rubbing his hand over his face, he felt tired suddenly, faced with the reality of their situation. “I keep thinking there should be someone around to call for help, but everyone I come up with is either not born or happily married or not in the life yet.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D.’s around. I’ve thought about contacting them, but it was a different organization in this time. Coulson and Fury are both in the army right now; actually got the number for M.I.T. to try and find Tony – he’s probably in the middle of building Dum-e. Of everyone, he’d believe us, but what could he do?” Clint shook his head. “What about the angels? Is there a hotline or prayer line or something?”

“Angels? They’re dickheads. Don’t look for help from them.” Dean snorted, disgust evident in his voice. “Can’t trust them as far as you can throw them … well, most of them. Cas is good, Balthasar came through in a pinch, and Gabriel’s okay for a smartass trickster type. But the rest? Asses to the last of them.”

“Cas … Castiel, the one who brought us here. You trust that he knows what he’s doing? Not just jerking our chains?” Clint was obviously concerned and who could blame him? A friendly neighborhood angel shows up and pops you back 20 or so years? If Dean didn’t know Cas so well, he’d be doubtful too.

“Cas has our backs. Went to the mat for Sam and me during the almost apocalypse; Lucifer blew him up for his trouble. Killed other angels to protect us. Yeah, I trust him.” The fact that it was Cas who’d done this made the whole situation that much more worrisome; Morwen was seriously fucking up the world and Cas was dropping little bombs about focal points and catalysts. Not good.

“So, you and Cas are … friends?” Clint’s voice was guarded, and he had that look on his face, the one that betrayed absolutely no emotion at all. Resting face, my ass, Dean thought. That was Clint’s mask.

“Dude died for me. I’d do the same for him.” The truth, unvarnished. There were very few people alive Dean could say that about … Sam, Bobby, Cas, and now Clint.  “Whatever you want to call that.”

“Okay.” Clint closed down, turning his body away before it struck Dean exactly what Clint was asking him. He reached out and grabbed Clint’s arm, pulling him back.

“You’re jealous!” Dean corralled Clint by holding onto each arm, herding him until his back hit the wall, just a few steps behind them. “Totally going green-eyed on me, Barton?”

“That’s Banner’s job, not mine. Just getting the lay of the land.” Clint’s blue-grey eyes were still shuttered to hide his feelings, but Dean wasn’t having any of that shit. “We’re not exclusive or anything. It helps to know if there are any emotional entanglements, anything that might cause potential problems.”

“Entanglements … lay of the land … god, you know what it does to me when you talk dirty,” he gave a low, throaty laugh. To match his words, Dean tangled his hand into Clint’s hair, extending along the stubbly jawline.  With his other hand, he dragged his thumb across his bottom lip. “Are you asking me if I fucked Cas?” Clint didn’t respond, just raised an eyebrow and waited; Dean meant to draw it out, torment Clint a little more, but he really wanted nothing more than to kiss some sense into the man. Any resolve he had broke when Clint parted his lips so the tip of his tongue could swipe along the pad of Dean’s thumb. Replacing his finger with his lips, Dean let his mouth caress Clint’s, tilting his head to the side to get better contact.

“Did you?” Clint’s words vibrated along Dean’s mouth.

“Nope. Never.” It was impossible to explain why; between Jimmy Novak, Cas’ innocence, and the whole ‘bigger than the Chrysler building’ thing, sex wasn’t something that ever crossed Dean’s mind. Plus there was the whole Meg flirtation – creepy as it was – and Novak’s wife. “Guess he wasn’t enough of a smartass for me.”

Clint’s hand hooked the belt loop of Dean’s dress slacks as he reeled him in for a harder, faster kiss that quickly escalated into full on body-to-body friction and twin moans. It was always like this with them; no matter how much Dean resolved not to fall right back into Clint’s orbit, every damn time they ended up in each other’s arms. Sex was inevitable and enjoyable and it should be getting old, worn, boring like always but it wasn’t, and no one was more surprised than Dean.  Except for Lisa, he’d never had a relationship last longer than the one he had with Clint. Hunters didn’t have families or day jobs or barbeques; they had crappy motel rooms and fried foods and new scars every week. But Clint? Clint was different; if anything his life was even crazier than Dean’s, what with the superhero, alter ego, super spy, assassin gig. That plus he understood the fun of a dysfunctional childhood. But none of that explained why Dean wanted to do nothing but stay like this, trapping Clint with his body, kissing the living hell out of him until they were both so hard there was no stopping until one of them was buried deep in the other and the only thing they could think of was how good it felt.

“Dean,” Clint murmured.

“I know.” Dean sighed as he literally forced himself to step back. His cock was aroused and aching, but his brain was coming back online. “Miles to go. I need some clothes and then we need a plan. Some whiskey would be nice.”

“And a stop by the drugstore.” Clint shifted his jeans around his own hard erection. “Maybe they have the heat sensitive kind of condoms.”

**1973**

Iowa was a desolate place in the winter, snow covering the flat plains, small houses seeming to shiver in the cold. The jump in time had drained him enough that he resorted to human conveyance, picking out a lovely brown BMW to drive to the small squat block building. Hidden from human eyes, the sigils and warnings glowed bright in the evening light; warded from monsters and demons and angels, the place appeared to be abandoned, but he knew looks could be deceiving. Parking, he eased out, careful to expend only enough energy to keep his boots from breaking through the crust of muddy slush, he made his way to the locked door and pushed it open with no effort at all.

The main room was bleak: fake wood paneling on the walls, cement floor, folding metal chairs with uneven legs, and a couple of bulletin boards haphazardly hung on the wall with papers pinned announcing potlucks and choir concerts. Even as he stepped in, a back door swung open and a woman stood framed in the stark light. Her long blonde hair was pulled back, petite body covered in jeans, snow boots, and an oversized cable knit sweater to combat the chill in the air. Blue eyes widened, then she smiled.

“You’re too late. The gifting is already complete,” she announced with just a hint of accent; she’d been too long hidden in the human world, assimilating.

“You know you have only succeeded in making the child a target. She is going to come; it would be better to destroy the bow completely.” It was an old argument. No one believed him but he was convinced. He remembered her relentless drive, the core of evil that infected everything she touched. She would return and have her revenge on them all.  Why couldn’t they see that?

“True. But he can handle it. There are angels assigned to his case; his birth was arranged. He will be important in the course of the universe. My father foretold it before he was murdered.”

He hoped that was true, but he wouldn’t trust it; plucking the name from her mind, he left and got back in the car, heading for the hospital to see for this child for himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Book of Enoch is part of the Dead Sea Scrolls; you can read it online if you're interested. The Watchers are also mentioned in a section of the Koran as well. 
> 
> As you can probably tell, I know the town of Clinton, TN well and I'm a huge fan of '80s music. The little pizza joint is no longer there, but I do know three girls who were given a warning by a police man for dancing on the hood of a car in that parking lot once .... ;D


	3. When I Get That Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Clint go shopping in '83 while Sam starts to figure things out in 2013.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to be so long between postings. Had some real life family demands that I had to deal with. But I'm back now and ready to roll, so back to the regular scheduled programming.
> 
> Yes, there were 4 channels in 1983 and a Woolworth's in Oak Ridge. So much fun bringing up old places.

Chapter 3 “When I get that Feeling”

NOW

Two days. Sam had been running in circles for two days, following every avenue, chasing down every lead. Damn phone kept right up with him, the new tablet purring along at warp speed, but to no avail. He’d talked to Coulson again yesterday, hoping his resources might help track down the monster before it struck again; he had SHIELD researchers on the task, but Sam didn’t put much stock in what they’d find. Bobby had gotten some information a way to see through a wraith’s glamour without needing a mirror and sent the ingredients of a salve so Sam wasted a whole day finding them all. The problem was the Alpha Wraith’s pattern was too random; sure the types of victims were the same, but the lengths of times, the specifics, were all different, making it impossible to track it down. He pushed the files across the library table and pulled the tablet back in front of him ready to start again.

“When’s the last time you slept?” Marie asked him. She’d been with him, step-by-step, determined no one else was going to die on her watch; this morning, she’d found him in the small local library, half-zoned out, scrolling through another reel of microfilm.

“I’ll sleep when we figure this out.” He’d caught a few hours on the couch in the squad room late yesterday, just before Coulson sent new files that kept him up all night long.

“Look, you can’t think, you’re so tired. Go back to your hotel. You’re going to miss something. Besides, I often wake up and the answer is there. I think the brain needs time to process, if you know what I mean.” She had the mom voice down, or maybe that was just a cop voice of sympathy. “I’ll call you if anything comes up.”

He didn’t want to, but, truth was, a shower and sleep would give him a new perspective. And maybe Marie was right; his brain might click into gear and get somewhere. He’d just finish the reel and then he’d go.

Sam was turning the handle so fast the picture almost slid off the side of the screen. He rolled it back, framed it in the middle and increased the magnification. That was absolutely Dean, Member’s Only jacket and Izod shirt aside, behind two police detectives who were standing on the front porch of a clapboard house. Half out of the picture and turned to the side, Clint was standing in the crowd of onlookers. DRUG EPIDEMIC OR MURDER? the headline asked. Adjusting the focus, Sam checked the date: April 14, 1983.

“Damn,” he cursed, clicking on the article to print.

“What?” Marie looked over his shoulder. “Isn’t that Dean? But how?”

“That’s a good question. If we find the answer, I bet we’ll be a lot closer to solving this thing.” The printer next to the librarian’s desk began to spit out a copy. “We track down the cops in the picture, they might tell us something useful.”

“Not hard to do.” Marie pointed to the men. “That’s Bob Woods. He was victim number six. And that’s Elmo Lynch, the Police Commissioner.”

**1983**

It was late when they rolled back into the parking spot in front of their room; they’d checked off a long list of to-do items while they explored the area. Dean had some new clothes; turns out there wasn’t much in the way of shopping in Clinton, so they’d driven along the river to Oak Ridge, the city known for its part in the creation of the atomic bomb. Despite Clint trying to get him to try on the worst of 80s fashion – really? A red leather jacket with chains and buckles? – Dean got some simple Levis and a few shirts. Not plaid, but he took the more conservative colors of oxfords and polo shirts to layer. No pink or red, just muted blues and white and black. Clint popped up the collar of the polo shirt and laughed at him, so Dean made him try on some really tight acid washed jeans then got distracted by just how snug they were across Clint’s mighty fine ass, so he kicked Clint out to go find supplies at the hardware store.

Purchases in the trunk, they headed off to question the witnesses and family; they caught the wife of the second victim, Robert Johnson, arriving home from the real estate agency that bore her name. She had very little to add to her original statement; she’d found her husband upstairs in their bed when he failed to pick up their son from band practice. Tears flowed easily and quickly as she talked about it; four different times, Amanda Johnson mentioned that Robert had insisted it was okay if she work late because she had a line on a new listing, the Butcher house out on River Run, a real coup for her small agency.  No one answered at the Holts, home of the second victim; Dean could see baby toys spread about the living room through the open curtains and papers on the desk in the corner. They found Kevin Holt at his parent’s house; the high school history teacher who’d come back to his hometown to work and marry his sweetheart couldn’t talk because he was knocked out from taking his mom’s valium, so torn up over his wife’s death that he was unable to function. The story the parents told was much the same; Donna had been home alone working on her paper for a college night class she was taking while Kevin was at work, the baby at a church Mother’s Day Out program.  The third victim, Margery Canaday, had been found by the maintenance man at the Second Baptist Church, lying on one of the benches in the new narthex she’d help build with a sizable gift.  Andrew Martin liked to stop by the Wagon Wheel for a beer or two; Dean found that he liked the older man who’d worked for the Clinch River Electrical Authority for 35 years until a stray live wire used his body as a conduit and sent a massive electrical charge right through him. Surviving that had changed his life; he’d taken the disability and retired, spending his free time volunteering at the church and the local mission. Still, he could add no clues since Margery often came to that specific pew to pray, usually at least once a week, sometimes at odd hours when she was especially troubled; he’d chanced upon the body during his monthly check for burned out light bulbs in the chandeliers and assumed that Margery had died of a heart attack because of her known heart troubles.

“Thing is, aside from the same type of victim as in the future, everything else is different,” Dean was saying as he waited for the waitress to bring his burger and fries. He couldn’t believe that there was an honest-to-god Woolworth’s, complete with a lunch counter and booths, a real five-and-dime store leftover from the fifties, just a few doors down from the J. C. Penny’s in Oak Ridge. There was a glass pie counter filled with an assortment of baked goods including five different flavors of pie with a little sign advertising the bakery just down the street attached to the glass. He could see the fry cook working on his burger, had watched them put a potato through the slicer for his fries, and hand scoop the ice cream for his chocolate milkshake.  “Always alone, in a place they belong, where they’d go unnoticed for some time. Whatever is behind this does its homework. Everyone seemed well-adjusted, normal even; last wraith we ran into liked her vics crazy with fear.”

“Well, we know Morwen always works through others, right? The vamps in Pennsylvania, werewolves in D. C., so she’s hooked up with wraiths here, maybe some that prefer happy juice instead of scared?” Clint suggested. “You said each vic made the wraith more powerful, like charging a battery. So this is a big battery with more than one cable running to jump start Morwen’s way back in.”

“Still feel like we’re missing something. I’d like to go talk to the lead detective.” The idea had been to go with a newspaper reporter cover, but Amanda Johnson had looked at Dean in his suit and immediately assumed F.B.I., and Dean did have his fake badge in his pocket, so he’d rolled with it. Nice thing was, he could get into the police’s good graces faster this way. “Elmo Lynch. I can give him a call and see if he’s still in his office; I’ve got his information here.”

“Better have a dime for a payphone,” Clint laughed.

“I can’t wait for you to tell Tony that his Stark phones were useless. He did such a hard sell.” Dean dropped the phone on the table and pushed the power button, mostly just to make fun of Tony’s reliance upon technology. To his surprise, the phone not only lit up, but the little searching for a signal icon came on, circled for a few seconds and then showed three bars. “What the …?”

Clint took his own phone out and powered it up. Nothing happened. He tapped a few buttons and manually set it to search; it too, within seconds, was active. “Of course. There are cell phones now, so there are satellites. Tony’s program is designed to piggy back off of whatever signal it can find. No internet but call me, see if it works.”

Dean, skeptical as always, pressed the green phone symbol beside Clint’s name; his phone played the opening bars of “Smoke on the Water” as Dean heard a ringing from his own. The people at the next table looked over at the sound, eyeing the little devices; they tucked them away in their pockets again.

“That one of those newfangled Japanese things?” The waitress asked as she sat their food down in front of them. Clint looked happily at his own roast beef sandwich with gravy and mashed potatoes and Dean practically drooled over his burger. “My nephew wants one. A Walking Man or something.”

“A Sony Walkman. Yeah. My brother just brought them from D.C. All the rage there,” Clint offered.

“Don’t know what’s wrong with a nice LP anymore. Too many new gadgets,” she shook her head and walked back to the counter. “Everything needs batteries nowadays.”

“Should we tell her about Ipods?” Clint grinned.

“Hey, dude, I’ve still got cassette tapes in my baby, remember?” Dean bit into his burger. “But we do have a limited battery life without a recharger.”

“Speak for yourself,” Clint waved a little fob on his key ring from his pocket. “Stark instant charger. Solar powered. Tony rocks. But don’t tell him that.”

A phone call from the car netted them a meeting with Detective Lynch who turned out to be more politician than police man. He shook Dean’s hand, all ‘I’m so happy to work with the feds’ but completely put out to see Dean standing before his very clean desk. Within moments, Dean realized the man was an idiot; he’d run into the type before, probably somebody in his family had enough pull to keep him moving up in the ranks without ever really doing anything. Man hadn’t talked to anyone but the family members who found the bodies, wasn’t ready to use the term ‘serial’ to describe the killings, and was pushing a drug angle for an explanation. So, useless. The only good that came from the whole forty-five minutes was an introduction to a young uniform officer who had been first on the scene for two of the three deaths; Marcus Delbert was green around the gills, but he rolled his eyes at Lynch’s long rambling diatribe about the evils of drugs and passed his phone number to Dean as he left. Dean was pretty sure that Marcus was flirting with him as well, and the kid was cute, but too wet behind the ears for Dean’s tastes; he was thinking more about sassy archer who happened to be waiting for him in a muscle car in the parking lot. And, damn, that was a hot thought. So he nodded to the cop, took the card, but his mind was already moving on.

Clint stopped at a liquor store to pick up some beer and a bottle of whiskey, and he’d gotten a few more things while Dean had been in with the detective. Dropping his new clothes and duffle on the far bed, Dean started opening packages, putting the garbage back into the shopping bag; Clint kicked off his shoes and turned on the T.V., propping himself up on a couple pillows on the other bed, a cold beer open on the night stand, watching Dean and ignoring Joan Collins in her massive shoulder pads launch into a cat fight with Linda Evans.

“Can’t you find anything better to watch?” Dean nodded towards the TV.

“Hey, there are a grand total of four channels,” Clint flipped through them. “Oh, look, _Facts of Life_. A movie with Valerie Harper. A PBS news show. Name your poison.”

“Whatever.” Dean didn’t really care about the T.V.  That uncomfortable itch between his shoulder blades was the knock of his libido telling him they were alone in a room with beds. Like he needed a reminder.

“So Lynch is a jerk?” Clint tried to start a conversation.

“Grade A ass kisser working his way up the ladder.” Dean finished with the clothes and tossed the duffle in the corner. “Guys like that piss me off. In a position to save people, and he only cares about the next job title.”

“So, who’s the good looking young guy that followed you to the door?”

Dean smirked a little. “Why? You want his number? I’ve got it somewhere.”

“Uniforms don’t do it for me, sorry.” Clint shrugged. “More of a plaid shirt and denim jacket kind of guy, although there is something about a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.”

“Marcus said he wanted to help any way he could,” Dean said, popping a top off of one of the beers and taking off his dress shoes. “I bet he knows a good place to get a drink.”

“Got a drink right here.” He waved his bottle towards Dean. “And when you decide you’ve done the dignity dance enough for the evening, my attention will be fully occupied with a very fine Winchester ass.”

“Dignity dance?” Standing between the beds, Dean looked at Clint. Okay, maybe he did fight it a little bit; after all, he tended to think of himself as a leave-before-morning type, but he was way past that with Clint, so this was brand new territory for him.

“I get it, really. Nat gives me grief about my sex life all the time; the occasional bang then long spans with the hand. I’m trying something different; when we’re together, I’m going to enjoy it and not waste time worrying about what to put on my Facebook status.” He shrugged. “So, are you going to come over here or do you need me to tackle you?”

“Don’t have a damn Facebook page,” Dean groused, but sat his beer down, took the remote from Clint’s hand and turned the T.V off; he walked over to the table where they’d left their various packages. “So, where’s the pie?”

“What makes you think I got pie?” Clint sat up, shucked off his shirt and tossed it on the other bed. That move got Dean’s attention.

“You always get pie. It’s our thing.” Dean dug through the various parcels. He found condoms and flavored gel, tossing them over on the bed. “If those are neon colors, I am not taking a pink one.”

“Glow in the dark neon. And edible cherry.” Clint grinned and unbuttoned his pants, shimmying them down his legs.  Dean had found the white box, but his eyes were drawn to Clint who shed the last of his clothing and stretched back out on the bed. Snatching up the lube and opening it, Clint poured some on his fingers. He licked one tentatively, thought about, then curled his hand around his half-aroused cock and began to lazily stroke. “Not bad, actually. A little sweet.”

“Dude.” Dean shook his head. “Can’t wait until I’m ready?”

“Eat your pie. I can take care of this myself.” Clint grinned and set an easy pace with his hand, biting his lower lip; his eyes were on Dean, mischief dancing in the blue-grey depths.

“Go right ahead. I’ll just be over here.” Dean dragged a chair over for a better view, positioned it by the edge of the dresser and put the pie and the plastic fork down; he walked back and picked up his beer.  He settled into the chair and forked up a big bite; two could play at this little game, he thought as he chewed and swallowed. From his vantage point, he could prop his foot on the corner of the bed and lean back. Rather than folding, Clint doubled down, gelling up his other hand and then planting a foot on the bed and reaching beneath his knee to slide his fingers down. He raised an eyebrow Dean’s direction; Dean took another forkful and purposefully continued eating, ignoring the growing insistency of his own cock which was making its presence known against the zipper of his dress pants. Swallowing too soon at the sound of the ragged exhale Clint gave as one finger slipped past the tight muscle and worked in and out, Dean coughed and had to take a swig to clear his throat. He finished off the pie in two more bites, drained the beer, and sat the empty bottle down; Clint had added a second finger and was moaning now, hands working in tandem, picking up the pace as he grew more and more aroused.

“You done yet?” Clint gasped out, tilting his hips off the bed and thrusting into his hand. “Don’t want to rush you or anything, but if you’re going to be part of this …”

“I think you’re enjoying the audience. Camera’s working on my phone; maybe I should be taping it?” Dean palmed his own erection, sliding over the hardness, turned on by Clint laid out before him.

“Um,” Clint breathed. “Done this a lot to the other video, you know? Bootlegged a copy before they destroyed it.” He was arching up now, and he groaned as he spread himself out more with a third finger.

Dean was torn between a laugh and a groan of his own; his brain wanted to be embarrassed about the surveillance footage from the last time he and Clint were together – and he totally blamed Clint’s voyeurism for some of the best sex he’d ever had – but his cock was taking charge and telling him to get his ass out of the chair and over to the bed right now. Standing, he unbuckled his belt, slid it out of the loops, and reached for the buttons of his shirt.

“Unbutton it, but leave it on.  The tie too,” Clint said, and Dean could see the lust in the other man’s eyes. Hey, who was he to judge? He had his own kinks, for sure, and Clint very happily not only put up with them, but indulged him – thus the piece of pie. Dean would never eat pecan pie again without thinking of Clint. So he shed his pants and briefs, unbuttoned his shirt, loosened the tie, snagged the box of condoms and opened it as he climbed onto the bed and sat back onto his heels. Before he could open one of the foil packets, Clint caught the end of the tie and yanked, pulling Dean’s mouth down to his. The kiss was one of lovers who knew each other, forceful, needy, open mouths and clashing tongues. Clint’s tongue circled and tasted the sweetness of the pie; he rolled them over in one fast move, straddling Dean and bringing their cocks together, his slick with gel and pre-come, leaving streaks along Dean’s skin.

Dean bucked up, not really trying to knock Clint off as much as assert himself; Clint was too good at taking the reins. Dean didn’t really mind it, occasionally wondering why he wasn’t more proactive, but then Clint sucked on his lower lip and Dean didn’t really care.  Light grazes with his mouth, Clint moved, licking first one then the other nipple, nipping them with his teeth before he headed for his primary target, a single minded mission to get Dean’s cock in his mouth. It was a trait Dean admired about Clint – when he focused intently on a goal, nothing got in his way, and sure enough, Clint’s tongue teased the flush head, tracing a circle and then a long line down and back up before his lips parted and slicked down over the hard length. Dean’s brain went fuzzy – the man knew what he was doing and had some tricks that made little sparks explode behind Dean’s eyes. For some odd reason, he found himself thinking of the way Clint ate pie, licking his fork and sucking the cherries into his mouth, and, damn, he was going to end this way too early if Clint didn’t stop that thing he was doing sucking in his cheeks. Winding his hands into Clint’s hair, Dean drew that amazing mouth off of his cock; Clint winked, knowing exactly how affected Dean was, and crawled back up until they were face to face.

“Audience participation is a good thing, eh?” Clint dipped down to drop a kiss on Dean’s neck.

“I’ll take the complete immersion experience,” Dean said as he rolled them back over and fished for the packet he’d had earlier. “Not wasting time, right?”

Clint found it first and ripped it open, handing the condom to Dean to put on. “Right now is all we’ve got,” he answered, his face gone serious, the moment suddenly something more. Easing himself into position, opening his legs as Dean slid between them, Clint ran his fingers down the side of Dean’s face before he tangled them in his tie. For a second, there was an understanding that flashed between them as Dean pressed his cock into Clint, parting the muscle and slowly, inexorably filling him with his hard length. Sex was sex, and Dean had certainly had his share of mindless one-night, alcohol fueled encounters. He’d even had weekends, had easy morning sex, had dated and been in relationships, albeit short term ones. But this? Being inside Clint, having Clint inside of him, moving together like dance partners who’d been together for years – there were no barriers, nothing Dean had to hide or pretend wasn’t there, no part of himself that Clint couldn’t see or wouldn’t understand The realization was immense, terrifying, amazing … so damn good and tight and worth every second of the doubt that assailed him.

“Hey. Stop thinking about it.” Clint held Dean’s face stead with his hands. “Feels good, right? Just go with that. The rest doesn’t matter.”

“Fucking A.” Dean closed his eyes and shifted, rolling his hips in a figure eight. Clint groaned and jerked and Dean looked back down at him. “Almost as good as a piece of pie.”

“Almost?” Clint wrinkled his nose then laughed. “You’re driving here, so put your ass in gear and get on with it.”

Dean pulled out and thrust back in, hard enough to scoot Clint an inch or two across the bedspread. “Better than most pie.” He did it again, folding Clint’s legs up and getting a better angle, earning a breathy ‘fuck’ from Clint . “Okay, maybe better than all but a couple pieces of pie I’ve had.” He knew the second he found just the right trajectory and picked up with a relentless pace that shook the bedframe and slid them both precariously close to the edge as he drove in over and over again.  “There was this pie I had once. This guy I met brought it, chocolate silk, and I got to lick it off his cock.” One hand dropped over the side, and he fell flush against Clint; scrambling back, he dragged Clint’s hips and kept on fucking into him as they raced to their climax.  “Then there was this pie in D.C. … I think you might have heard of that one.”

“God, Dean,” Clint groaned as his body bowed up and his hips crashed back to meet Dean’s thrusts. He was coiled tight, ready to go, and Dean curled a hand around Clint’s aching cock and stroked; they were both so close. Clint clenched his muscles just seconds before Dean slammed home for the last time and they came together, rocking their bodies as they rode out their orgasms.

“Damn good pie.” Dean’s kiss was slow and easy, replacing jokes for the words he doubted he could ever say. “I’d drive a long ways to get a piece.”

“Oh,” Clint groaned. He pushed Dean off of him. “Get a piece. Really. I expect more from you, Winchester.”

“Hey, my brain is blood-deprived at the moment. It’s the best I can come up with.” He winked. “I’ll push a little harder next time. Suck it up and get better.”

“Gah!” Clint sat up and got off the bed. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing here. I am not going out to get you more pie. Even if you keep that up.”

“Dude, I can keep it up all night!” Dean laughed as Clint wandered into the small bathroom, leaving the door open as he wet a washrag and cleaned up. The banter did make him feel better – pie, sex, and stupid jokes usually did – but the feeling didn’t go away.  “We should really work on making some salt rounds.”

“Yeah, we should,” Clint said, nudging Dean’s shoulder as he bent to pick up his underwear and jeans. “Or we can eat that other piece of pie I hid, drink some whiskey, and have a second round of ‘can I fuck you senseless without talking about it’ in thirty minutes or so. I vote for that option.”

Dean watched as Clint piled the clothes on the second bed. Yeah, he could do that. Especially if this pie was cherry and Clint would share it with him.

**NOW**

Sam curled his fingers around the hilt of the silver knife, carefully tilting the mirror so he could see into the room beyond. The old barn looked empty, nothing but moldy hay spread on the dirt floor, but there were too many closed stalls and dark corners to know for sure. Marie had warned that a root cellar was underneath and a hayloft above, too many places to hide. Easing the wooden door open with his foot, he peered around the edge; nothing moved, no dust stirred, but he searched anyway.

Ninth in the list of past murder sites, Sam and Marie had spent the last 48 hours meticulously going over the old cases, looking for differences. Small things at first – Sam recognized Dean’s Van Zant alias where it popped up now in the files, but no mention was made of Clint. For some odd reason, he could remember the original reports, maybe because he poured over them so many times recently. Bobby’s theory was that as Dean and Clint interacted with people in the past, memories and details were shifting. An even bigger surprise was that Marie noticed as well; she’d called Sam late yesterday when she suddenly could remember her father talking to two guys that had to be the missing pair. That led to a second image of them in a pizza joint, sitting with a third man, talking. Unfortunately, the only thing Marie could remember was talking to her friends and deciding which of the three was the cutest – she’d been embarrassed to admit that. Since it was the day before her brother was killed and she had relived every single moment of the 24 hours so many times over, she started to believe the time travel idea.

“Clear!” She called from the loft. “From the state of the owl’s nests up here, no one’s been around here for a long time.”

Sam opened the last stall; the root cellar door was against the wall, padlock old and rusty, cobwebs thick strings across it.  He pulled on it and his hand came away dirty as rust fell onto the ground. No one had bothered it in ages. “Same here. It’s a bust.”

“I don’t know what I thought we’d find.” As Marie dropped off the last rung of the ladder, she leaned back against it, her exhaustion evident. “Almost five days ago, when your brother came in my office, I thought this was a break in the case … I should know better to get my hopes up again.”

“Hey, Dean and Clint are still back there. We don’t know what all they’re going to change; no need to give up now,” Sam said, as much to encourage himself as the weary detective. “Let’s go back to the Commissioner again. We’ll ask about those new notes in the files.”

She laughed and rolled her shoulders, trying to work the knots out. “Bob will love that; he already thinks I’m obsessed and need therapy. This should seal the deal.”

“Bob?” Sam asked, confused.

“Bob Woods. The Commissioner?” She eyed him closely. “Maybe we should call it a day and get some rest.”

“The Commissioner is Elmo Lynch.”

“No, Elmo died in ….” She stopped, blinked, and then cursed. “Goddamnit, I can remember both ceremonies … what the fuck happened?”

“Let’s go check the files.” Sam breathed a quick silent prayer that Dean and Clint knew what they were doing back in 1983.

**_Pocona City, Oklahoma 1990_ **

The smell of fresh blood was almost lost in the distinct scents of animals, popcorn, sweat, and vomit, but he honed in on the pain, the psychic destruction that had its signature. Behind the trailers, out of the lights that still lit the midway even though the trampled grass was the only reminder of the crowds from before, beyond the restless movements of the lions and the tiger, the stomping of the elephants, all of them sensing the violence that had occurred, he found him. Red covered his grey t-shirt, his hand clenched against the gaping wound in his stomach, face battered and bruised, leg twisted into an unnatural angle. Dropping to one knee, he sighed in sympathy for the pain the young man must be feeling; the mental anguish was more sharp and poignant that the physical hurts. And yet, deep and buried, the gift glinted, waiting.

“Don’t,” the young man whispered. “Don’t go.”

It took very little energy to stem the bleeding, just enough to keep him alive until the night watchman, already on his rounds, would find him, take him to the hospital. Through the last few years, he’d watched the young man grow up, seen the obstacles thrown in his way, the stubborn determination, the natural talent that developed despite everything. The mark on the boy had shown brightly, a magnet that drew creatures like him, both the good, the bad, and the indifferent; focal points, catalysts, heroes, whatever they called humans like the boy, were tantalizing for those who were addicted to power, who craved it. Even if he survived this betrayal, there would be another and another and another -- challenges, crises, dangers, and villains. Necessary, but not a life to be wished upon anyone, despite the way human poets romanticized and turned men like this into legends and myths.

He stepped over the ring and left the tent, ensuring the flap was caught open to draw the guard’s eye. If Morwen was to be stopped and this world saved, Clint Barton was in for much worse than his brother’s knife in his belly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. I'm changing Clint's back story, but hey, they do that all the time at Marvel with new comic runs, so just call this the Cake!verse.


	4. Sweet Dreams are Made of This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wraith reveals itself, the guys change the future, and Clint gets a jolt and a ghostly visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time is flowing differently for Sam and Dean -- that's why Sam has been working for weeks and Dean & Clint only a couple days. It's hard to maintain that back and forth, so I'm pleading for latitude. Also, I will be going back to clean up some continuity errors. Writing a time travel, change the future story is damn hard to keep everything straight. I need a murder board of my own! :)
> 
> Sorry for taking so long on this chapter. It was hard to write and I kept running off on tangents to research things and then RL got in the way. Semester starts up soon and I'll be back on my regular writing schedule.

**1983**

“Dude, this is a little skeevy, don’t you think?” Dean asked, passing over Clint’s drink before he took his own. “Hanging out at the high school and watching teenage girls twirl flagpoles? Someone’s going to call the cops on us.” He took a big sip from his white Styrofoam cup as the young voices counted to sixteen over and over again, their tall aluminum poles dwarfing them with big white pieces of fabric that flapped as they spun. Dean had to admit the little black shorts they wore showed some of their very mature curves, not that he noticed those kinds of things. Really.

“As long as John David Oakes is grounded and sitting right there on the hill smoking his cigarette – or joint which is more likely – we’re here.” Clint just ignored Dean, settling back in the driver’s seat. They’d had a long discussion, ahem, argument about Clint always driving this morning with some choice words about passengers and riding which had then devolved into a long series of really bad sex puns and ended in quick hand jobs in the front seat. Dean didn’t count it as a loss since he spent most of the day annoying Clint with the most creative double entendres he could think of while they shadowed the next victim. J.D. as his family called him – Dean refused to think of the 14-year-old kid as ‘Slick,’ the name the losers he hung out with used – was treading on some very thin ice and it was a damn shame.  He seemed like a good kid at heart, but he was lashing out at everyone around him. Classic signs of some sort of trauma, Dean had said while they ate lunch at a local drive-in with damn fine hot dogs and these things called frosted cokes that were a slushy mix of cola and ice cream. Something had happened to J.D. about six months ago, after his last year in junior high, and he’d gone from a normal pain-in-the-ass younger brother to a druggie down by the railroad tracks. His day had consisted of a very loud argument at home before he got in the car with his sister, skipping most of his classes to hide out behind the gym, and then trying to ditch Marie after school. Kid needed some therapy, obviously, but this was 1983 and all he had was a very earnest school counselor who had only too gladly talked to the nice F.B.I. agent about drugs at the school.

“Fine, but if one of those girls’ dads show up with a shotgun, you’re in the driver’s seat. I’m just the passenger.” Dean shifted to get more comfortable; they’d parked the car behind a corpse of trees across the creek. ClintonSenior High School was one of those failed 1960 experiments in equality of space or some such doubletalk shit they used to build really strange buildings. Made up of four round circles, inventively called ‘pods,’ each circle was cut into wedge shape pie piece classroom with an inner area for the teachers at the center. (Clint had already pinched Dean for using up his quota of _2001_ quotes – “open the pod bay doors, Hal” – so Dean had moved on to _Body Snatchers_ and lines about escape pods).  Half of the circle was outside; the other half was connected with a long arcing hallway. The Gym was the biggest pod of the four and it backed up to a wooded area complete with a creek that ran around the whole campus. Cars had to drive across a bridge to get into the lower parking lot where the girls were practicing and then up a hill to enter the school’s main doors in the center of the hallway. Most of the students and teachers had left already, the band practice scheduled to run until 6 p.m. From his vantage point, Dean could see the parking lot, the hill J.D. was sprawled on, and the trampled area just behind the gym only steps away from where his body would be found.

The rap on the window made him jump. Clint’s pistol appeared in his hand before they recognized the face of Bill Oakes. Today he had on a black and white plaid shirt with mother of pearl snaps and a Bass master belt buckle, his John Deere cap shading his eyes. Dean rolled down the window after he shot an ‘I-told-you-so’ look at Clint.

“Well, now boys, I think maybe it’s time you told me what you’re really doing.” Bill scratched his salt-n-pepper beard. He didn’t appear to be armed, so Clint slid the pistol back onto the seat. Clint nodded to Dean’s unspoken question.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Dean said as he opened the car door and got out. Clint came around, casually leaning his bow on the front fender.

“You ain’t no regular divorced man and his brother, that’s for sure. Been all over town asking questions. F.B.I., according to Nita down at the Richy Kreme.” Bill crossed his arms and gave them the once over. He couldn’t miss the guns or the silver knife that peaked out of its sheath on Dean’s belt. Positioning himself so he had a good view of the school, Dean let Clint do the talking.

“My brother is an F.B.I. agent,” he explained. “He thinks your son might be in danger.”

Bill’s eyes widened and then gave an exhausted sigh as his face fell. “Can’t understand what’s going on with that boy. Damn drugs, right? I told him he was getting in too deep but he doesn’t listen to me anymore.”

“Look, right now the most important thing is to keep him safe. What we need is for you to let us do our job,” Clint said.

“You think he’s dealing?” Bill shook his head in denial. “I know he’s using, found the bag of weed myself in the barn, but I don’t think he’s selling.”

“Clint. Heads up.” Dean saw the man jump over the half wall that separated the school terrace from the grassy hill, easing down to where the young man sat. “Incoming.”

“Aw, damn it. He’s still on probation from the last arrest,” Bill complained.

“That’s Elmo Lynch, the detective,” Dean told Clint. “Who else would he leave with, no questions asked?” They were already moving, in sync with each other, Dean breaking to the right towards the gym and Clint towards the parking lot.

“Bill, get the girls and get them in the building,” Clint ordered.

“Wait, you think Elmo’s the dealer?” Despite his protest, Bill stumbled along after Clint.  Dean kept his eyes on the detective.  It was a perfect cover for a monster, working the very same murders he’d committed. People trusted him, knew him – question was, Elmo had a family in town, so were they all monsters? Clearing the stream, Dean intercepted the man and the teenager, palming the compact mirror he had in his pocket; a wrath’s real appearance would be revealed in the reflection.

“Detective, I thought that was you.” He smiled and waved, as if bumping into the man on a street corner. “I’ve got a couple questions if you have a second.”

Lynch paused, turning towards Dean, annoyance on his face. “Agent Van Zandt. What are you doing here?”

“Legwork.” As nonchalantly as possible, Dean blocked the trail to the gym. “It’s a matter of follow through, you know?”

Squinting at him, Lynch grew angry. “No, I don’t know. Look, I’m in the middle of something.” Grabbing J.D.’s arm, Lynch tried to move around Dean.

“What’s the rush?” Dean asked. He tilted the mirror until he caught Lynch’s reflection expecting to see a distorted face of a wraith, but there was nothing but a human man in the circle. Shit. “You going to threaten him into selling drugs for you?”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at …” Lynch started to say. With a quick move, J.D. jerked free and ran; Dean cursed and took off after him, Clint further behind. The teenager was fast, darting into the trees, and Dean saw a dark figure slide between two poplars.

“Lynch isn’t it,” Dean shouted.

“I see it,” Clint shouted back. “Get the kid.”

Glad to have tennis shoes instead of dress shoes, Dean took off after the sprinting boy, jumping a narrow part of the creek as the kid scrambled up a bank towards the road.  He leaped and caught the edge of stone washed denim, pulling J. D. back down. They lost their footing and slid back, the teen rolling into the water and Dean sinking into the soft bank, mud squelching up to his ankles. Well, hell, there went his new shoes and jeans.

“You think it’s going to be that easy? Hardly

Andrew Martin, church handyman, held J.D., a long spine protruding from his palm aimed just behind the boy’s ear.

“Let the boy go and we can talk about this,” Dean said. J.D.’s eyes were staring, not with fear, but with what looked more like pleasure. He sagged down, relaxing.

“Oh, please. Hunters. You have no clue, do you?” Martin pressed the spine in and a trickle of blood ran down J.D.’s neck. 

“Why don’t you give me one? Tell me how an alpha died and came back from Purgatory.” Dean tried to get him talking.

“Oh, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, isn’t it? Purgatory’s not a drive-thru boy, can’t just waltz in and out.”

“Unless you have a little help from, say, an ancient bitch with a god complex?”

That surprised the Alpha. “How could you …?”

“No matter what she promised you, she’s pure chaos. She’ll kill you when she’s got what she needs.” He wasn’t sure what he hoped to accomplish except to gather as much information as possible.

“Stop!” Lynch caught up to them, his gun at the ready.

“Put that down, Lynch. You don’t know what you’re doing.” Damn it. Just what they needed, someone blundering into the middle of this.

“Stay out of my way,” Lynch shot back. “That kid’s mine. I need him.”

“Actually, Elmo,” Martin said. “You’re a real idiot.” Pushing J.D. towards Dean, the wraith leapt at Lynch. Three shots rang out before the monster was on the cop, riding him down to the ground, spine sinking all the way into the cop’s neck. Lynch cried out once then fell silent, body relaxing into the wraith’s poison. Martin moaned as he fed, draining the precious fluid.

With only the slightest noise, the arrow drove the monster’s body away from the cop, silver head sinking deep in his chest. Dean’s knife slammed into Martin’s back twice and the wraith screamed as Dean stomped on his hand, breaking off the long spine.

“What the hell?” Bill Oakes skidded to a stop; through the trees, Dean could see a gaggle of girls watching from the gym doors.

“Call an ambulance,” Dean instructed Bill. Turning to the wraith, Dean checked, making sure he was gone. 

“That was too easy,” Clint muttered as he came up behind Dean. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this ...”

Grey smoke rose from the wraith’s body, coalescing into a figure, half-formed. Dark haired and wearing a tunic, it grinned at Dean and then rushed towards the retreating back of Bill Oakes, knocking him down and dissolving into him. The man convulsed, eyes rolling back in his head; Dean got there in three steps and slashed across Bill’s forearm with his knife. Blood flowed and steamed. Bill screamed as the mist poured back out of the wound, oozing onto Dean’s foot. The second it touched bare skin, the most incredible feeling rushed over him. Not like sex, but those rare moments when warm arms cradled him, a body curled around his own, sleep stealing over him as their breathing synced in a long, slow, content slide into unconsciousness. Those quiet moments on the hood of the Impala, watching fireworks or drinking a beer, no words needed, just comfort in being alive one more day. So rare and fleeting, no doubt, no worry, just the best of all the moments of his life --true happiness.

“Dean?” Clint was shaking him, yelling from far away. “Fight it. You’ve got to fight it.”

Clint’s hands felt warm, bringing memories of a shared shower, easy strokes of fingertips, wet mouths … the pain slashed into the lethargy that griped him as the ghostly presence fled the silver’s touch. Suddenly Dean was wet and muddy, and a new cut burned on his arm.

“What the fuck?” Dean demanded; he scrabbled away from Bill who sat on the ground, stunned. His vision was blurry, the wraith’s poison still affecting him. He wanted to lean back into Clint and just close his eyes. “Where did it go?”

“There!” It was J.D., wet and shaking, who pointed to the roiling mist creeping along the ground, back towards the school. He’d stopped by his dad and was helping him up. Gone was the cocky attitude, replaced by a concerned son and brother. “Marie’s back there.”

Clint was up and moving, grabbing his bow and notching another silver arrow. Girls spilled out of the doors and were coming down the hill, Marie Oakes in the lead, running towards her father. Clint’s arrow buried itself just in front of the mist, driving it to the left; a second arrow turned it away even more.

“Stop,” Bill yelled, standing now and leaning on his son. “Go back in the school right now.”

He was woozy and more than a little aroused, but Dean climbed up off the ground and pulled his pistol out. Clint kept the mist away from the girls, but he was going to run out of arrows soon and Dean had loaded the gun with silver bullets. Wasn’t ideal, but better than nothing.

“Ladies, please. Back into the school.” Dean crossed out of the trees, keeping a close eye on the wraith ghost mist thing. “I’m with the F. B. I.” He got giggles and a few gasps as another arrow whizzed and thunked.

“That’s my brother and my dad.” Marie charged ahead despite the warning, but most of the others slowed and stopped. Some even retreated back into the building. Like a snake, the mist coiled and struck, lashing out at the teenager; she stumbled and fell, tumbling down the last of the incline and landing in a heap on the asphalt of the parking lot.

“Damn it,” Dean cursed as he ran to the struggling form. Just as he got there, she pushed up and the black figure exploded outward with an unearthly scream, splattering into tiny atoms that blew away in the light breeze. She groaned, rubbed her eyes, and took Dean’s hand when he offered it.

“Rie?” Bill came up behind them, J.D. in tow. Marie went into her dad’s arms, ignoring the red stains on her shirt from his sluggishly bleeding wound, and then reached out to bring her brother into the hug.

“What the fuck was that?” Clint asked, tucking his arrows back into the quiver. An easy hand on Dean’s back for a quick touch and Dean got the message.

“You’re the one who said it was too easy,” Dean replied. He answered with a bump backwards into Clint; he wasn’t okay, but he could fake it while the echoes of the wraith’s bliss rippled through him.

**NOW**

“We’ve got another one,” the voice on the phone informed Sam. Rubbing his eyes, he looked blearily at the old digital clock on the night stand. 5:27 a.m. He’d been asleep a little over three hours. Looked like that would have to be enough. “Off of Route 61. I’ll send you the directions.”

 “On my way.” Sam sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and grabbed his shoes. He got the location, grabbed a shirt that didn’t smell that bad and the loaded duffle he kept by the door as he left the room. The drive was only about 15 minutes, but it took him out into the countryside, down a winding road that wasn’t even two lanes wide. The black and white with its lights on at the end of the gravel road was the only reason he turned at the right spot, the Impala rumbling as he inched along the two ruts that seemed to climb up the side of a hill and drop off. Just as he thought there was nowhere to go, the road curved and he saw a house built of river rock with hewn logs as posts that held up the large deck tucked into the hill side overlooking the valley. He pulled into the parking area around the detached barn and headed not towards the house, but the smaller side path where a uniform stood guard. In the last two weeks, Sam had gotten to know most of the small police force; the rookie cop nodded and waved Sam on through the tangle of brambles that caught on his jacket. Just a short distance down the path, he came upon an old house, obviously abandoned and dilapidated, the porch sagging, only bits of cracked glass in the window.

“Sam, over here.” The dark haired man in a rumpled blue suit waved from the gaping doorway.  Sam ducked his head and entered the ramshackle old house. On the floor was the body of a teenage girl in her t-shirt, tight jeans and Ugg boots, eyes wide open in fear, body set in rigor, mouth open in a scream. “Just like the others, only a bigger gap of time between this and the last kill. Something must have happened to knock him off his schedule.”

Sam looked around at the three others in the room – two uniforms at the doorway and Billie Von Hardin, the M.E. That was strange; someone was missing. “Where’s Marie?” he asked.

The man looked up at him quizzically. “Who?”

“Marie. She’s lead on this case.” Even as he said it, he realized that this new person looked a lot like Marie – younger, male, but same facial features, same brown, curly hair. “Oh my God. You’re J. D.”

“Yeah, you know that. We’ve been working on this since …” J. D. Oakes, Anderson County detective, trailed off as understanding dawned in his eyes. He tugged on Sam’s sleeve. “Outside.”

“Marie’s your sister.” Sam stated as soon as they got out of earshot. “Where is she? Is she …”

“She’s probably home asleep.” J. D. talked over him. “Your brother and Clint? You think they changed something? Marie. A detective. She’ll find that funny considering she writes mystery novels for a living.” J.D. turned serious, flipping open a small notebook and working backwards. “Lynch/Woods, time gaps, change in the order of victims … what’s changed now?”

“Wait, you remember all that?” The problem, of course, was that J. D. was alive; how exactly to break the news that he should be dead was a more delicate matter.

“We’ve been through this before. My obsession with this case since the damn thing almost got me years ago overrides the changes.” Now he was the one who looked confused. Actually, it made sense. If Clint and Dean had stopped the wraith from killing J. D., that would have made a big impression on the teenager. Marie would never have become a detective to avenge her brother’s death, leaving J. D. to follow that path instead.

J. D.’s phone rang. He looked at the display and his eyebrows went up as he answered. “Marie? What are you doing up?” Dark brown eyes flicked up to Sam as he listened. “You want what? Why?” An eye roll and a sigh of a brother used to his older sister’s foibles. “Fine. Okay. Here.” He held the phone out to Sam. “She wants to talk to you.”

“Marie.” He took the phone and answered.

“So I wake up from the strangest dream where I’m married with two kids and have this overwhelming urge to call you but then I can’t remember your number and Barry started snoring and I don’t know which life was a dream anymore.” She gave a strangled little laugh. “My husband is staring at me right now like I’m crazy, probably contemplating calling the paddy wagon to come get me.”

“You’re not crazy,” Sam assured her. “Look, I need to talk to both you and your brother. Alone. Figure out what the new timeline is.”

“Me and my brother. Oh God. You don’t know how that makes me feel to hear those words. And at the same time, I’m still mad at him for forgetting my birthday last year.” She was almost crying; he could hear it in her voice. “Come over after 7:30 a.m. I’m up now. Barry’s got to go to work and the kids leave for school at 7:10. Sam. I have kids.”

“Yeah, you do. Give them an extra hug this morning. We’ll be there soon.” Sam hung up and passed the phone back.

“Something tells me we have a lot to talk about,” J. D. said.

**1983**

Clint swirled the whiskey in his glass as he sat at the dining room table, Dean next to him, nursing his own drink.  They’d managed the scene as best they could, wrangling teenage girls and cleaning Bill and Dean’s wounds, holding the cuts together with butterfly bandages. The EMTs who arrived took Lynch to Oak Ridge hospital, talking of comas and possible brain damage. Too many questions were left unanswered; there was no hiding their presence, not with all the witnesses. Fortunately, Dean’s F. B. I. cover held, and they were able to spin a tale that made sense. If the girls had seen a black cloud around Marie as she tumbled down the hill in her haste to get to her father, well, that was an understandable mistake for scared kids to make.

Finally, they’d escaped the police station and made their way back to Bill’s house, a lovely old farmhouse with freshly painted white siding and black shutters. Florence, his wife, had barbeque from a local joint ready for all of them. A red head, Flo was a hair dresser and decked in sensible nurse shoes, khaki pants and a floral shirt that covered her generous curves. Fortunately, she also had a sense of humor, so happy to have J.D. and Marie home safe that they could have said they were aliens and she wouldn’t have cared. The first rounds of beers were replaced with whiskey as the food disappeared and the conversation turned to the afternoon’s events.

“So Andy Martin? Doesn’t make sense. I’ve known him my whole life, went to school together. He was always helping people, even back then. Married his childhood sweetheart Jessie right after high school. Was the Den Leader of the Boy Scout Troop.” Bill pushed the last bit of baked beans over to J.D.; the boy grimaced and Clint caught the look.

“Does that mean his son and daughter are also … what did you call them? Wraiths?” Flo asked. She was watching both kids, a worry line between her eyes.

“I don’t think so.” Dean finished off his drink, his second glass. Clint was a little worried about him; he’d been acting strangely ever since the wraith had touched him. Bill, J.D. and Marie seemed to have shaken off the effects, but not Dean.  He was too quiet, dropping into distraction easily and zoning out on conversations. He’d told the cops he was just tired from pulling a long night of work -- but he didn’t even glance at Clint when he’d said it, that mischievous sparkle Clint expected missing from his eyes.

“But silver hurts it? Like werewolves?” J.D. asked around a mouthful of his third sandwich, a bit of hero worship in his eyes as he looked at Dean. “That’s why it left Dad after you slashed his arm.”

“Can we not talk about that at the table? Let’s just be glad you’re all okay.” Flo wrinkled her nose, her blue eyes glancing at the bandage on her husband’s arm.

“Mom, I’m not a kid anymore.” J.D. protested. “I’m glad the son-of-a-bitch is dead, he deserved it.”

“John David!” Flo was aghast.

“No, Flo, let him be,” Bill said, laying a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Man was trying to kill our son. I have to agree.”

“If it helps, he wasn’t Andrew Martin anymore, not since his accident, anyway. That’s probably when the wraith took over,” Dean offered. 

“Doesn’t answer why the thing left Rie.” J.D. looked at his sister. “Just exploded out of her like she tasted bad or something.”

“Gee, thanks, Davey. Maybe I was just too totally awesome?” Marie shot back, but she was smiling. “How about this?” She pulled a silver chain out from under her t-shirt; at the end dangled a heavy silver medallion, edges worn down and a patina covering the smooth finish.

His stomach plummeted; Clint had seen a similar symbol before, around the necks of some very nasty customers who tried to kill them in Pennsylvania. Two crescent moons and a full moon, only this time the slivers of circles were inside the full one rather than facing away. Dean nudged his leg under the table; he recognized it as well.

“That was my grandmother’s,” Flo provided without being asked. “Been in the family for years. She gave it to Marie just before she passed; said it was meant for her. Granny was little touched.” The last was said as an apology.

“Do you know where it came from?” Dean leaned over Clint to look closer, his hand dropping on Clint’s leg as he braced himself. A little spark jumped between palm and thigh; Dean cut a quick look at Clint and pulled his hand away.

“Granddad probably bought it at a second hand store; he was a notorious liar, had a woman in every town along his sales route,” Flo laughed. “But Granny always said it was a talisman to give women the power to be whatever they wanted. Silly, but there are a lot of Grimes women who did amazing things. There’s an explorer, the first woman representative from Tennessee, and a famous writer in the family. My aunt went to the Olympics back in ’52 and won a bronze medal. And Granny’s moonshine was famous; she made enough money to put her brothers and sisters through school selling the stuff. Revenuers never suspected a woman of running shine.”

“May I?” Clint asked as he reached for the necklace to examine it closely. Marie tugged the chain over her head and dropped it into his outstretched palm. The metal was warm from Marie’s skin, and for a second, it lay still in the center of his hand, chain wrapped around his fingers.

A wave of lightning blew up his arm, sparks chasing along his muscles to reach his shoulder and spread in a flash. Not time to breath, his heart contracted, a tight band settling across his chest, forcing the air out of his lungs. Discharge danced in front of his eyes, crackling along his jaw and into his head. He jolted as his chair fell over backwards, and he went down with it, body seizing up. Suddenly, the power coalesced in the center of his chest around the warm point where Dean’s hand was braced and Clint’s left hand that still clutched the medal. Forcing his eyes to focus, he could see the sparks rolling up Dean’s arms where they were connected by touch.

“Clint!” As fast as it started, it was over. Dean was leaning over him, and his hand was open, the necklace pooled on the floor where it had fallen. Opening his mouth, Clint dragged in a full breath of air, filling his lungs and releasing it, slowing his galloping heart. “You still there?”

“Well, that was shocking,” he managed to say. Yeah, it was a bad one, but his brain was still a little scrambled. Dean smacked him in the arm then helped him get up.

“That’s all you’ve got? You scared the hell out of me.” Dean righted the chair and Clint gratefully sat back down.

“Careful, I charge extra for better puns.” His hands were shaking; he clenched his fingers and he curled them open then closed again. “Didn’t expect that.”

J.D had left his own seat during the commotion. Now he bent down to pick up the necklace.

“Hey, don’t touch …” Dean started to warn him but the boy casually coiled the chain and medallion in his palm and handed it back to his sister. 

“What just happened?” Bill asked. The whole family was wide-eyed, staring at Clint.

“Seems Granny Grimes was right; this is a magical talisman and, for some reason, it likes Clint,” Dean explained.

“Just damn attractive, I guess,” Clint winked at Marie who actually blushed at that pun. Dean huffed, but Clint earned a ghost of a smile for that attempt, the best he’d gotten since the afternoon.

**NOW**

“You’re saying I died? That thing got me?” J.D. curled his hand around his coffee mug, trying to understand. “But I remember meeting Dean and Clint then, time travel, everything. How can I know that if I was dead?”

“Because in this time line, you were the one who became obsessed with finding the wraith.” Sam was trying to wrap his own brain around it all. By saving J.D., Dean and Clint had made drastic changes. Now, there were nine dead bodies in 1983, the first three the same peaceful victims both Sam and Marie remembered, but the rest, new victims dying in abject terror.

“And Marie went to college, wrote bestselling books, got married, and had kids.” A sip of coffee, and the detective looked at his sister for help. “God, sis, all those years chasing this thing and to just wake up in a different world?”

“It’s sort of fuzzy, to tell the truth, slipping away. The details, anyway. The big plot points are still there, but it’s like one of my novels now.” This Marie Oakes was different than the one Sam had first met; she was slimmer, happier, moving with purpose around the kitchen in her renovated farmhouse, cleaning up breakfast dishes. As she paused, deep in thought, her fingers found the silver necklace around her neck and absently rubbed it, obviously an ingrained habit. “What’s clear is Dean and Clint sitting right in there at the dining room table, telling us all about the wraith. You remember, Davey?”

“Andrew Martin that bastard. Sick fucker.” The venom in J.D.’s voice was strong. He shivered at the thought. “Honestly, though, Dean saved me from more than just Martin – he saved me from myself. I was pretty intent on destroying my life back then. I still wished Martin had died in that accident and saved all of us the trouble.”

“Accident?” Sam asked, trying to clarify the details of the new events.

“Martin was almost electrocuted; doctors were surprised he survived. Dean thought that was when the wraith got hold of him, or his body, we don’t know for sure,” J.D. provided. “Between the accident and when he tried to kill me, he was my Boy Scout leader.” There was something there, Sam could tell, but it was J.D.’s secret to keep, so he left it alone.

“So there was a connection between you and him. And Canady was found at the church, right?” Sam asked. He scrolled through the files on his tablet to pull up the details. “Damn. He’s the one who found her. That leaves Johnson and Holt.”

“Bob Johnson was a Scout leader of another troop.” J.D. said. “I wanted to transfer but the troop was full.”

“The Holts are still members of the church. There’s been a Holt on the deacon board there for years.”  Marie sat down her full cup and grabbed a laptop from the counter, opening it and sitting at the table to type up notes. “The six after that are different; you think the wraith used the information of the person it inhabited to choose victims?”

“Makes sense. But then there’s the addition of the violence. When Martin had me, I felt really good, like the most amazing high. I wasn’t scared at all, didn’t want it to end,” J.D. added to the theory. “The later victims were terrified before they died.”

“And the multiple entry points on the neck weren’t there anymore. Always figured either there were more than one of the bastards at those first three kills or he fed off of them at different times. Whatever it was, it stopped when Martin did.” J.D. flipped through some notes, rereading the current case files. “Okay, at least we have somewhere to start. Find a commonality between the current victims, the way the wraith is choosing them …”

“… include the characteristics of the next victims based upon the profile of the original nine …” Marie was typing as they tossed ideas back and forth.

“… six or nine? Why were there six, then nine? What if the first three were part of a set and then … yes, look! Four, five, six, and seven match the same profiles. He started over again. Must be significant somehow …” J.D.’s pen was flying as he drew circles and connected the dots.

“… as is the way he kills them. Could the change have anything to do with the new body? If I were writing it, I’d make it so the wraith took on some of the person’s characteristics. Martin was seen as a nice person …” Marie mused out loud.

“… motherfucking son-of-a …” J.D. muttered underneath her.

“… he volunteered and helped out in a lot of different ways. So maybe the wraith feeds off of good feelings because of that. And then he hops over into someone mean and nasty …” Marie kept going

“… and the kills get messy and violent.” Sam jumped in this time, getting into the flow of things. “Yeah, it could work. So it would be someone who was here 20 years ago and is still around …”

“… or it jumped again into another nasty bastard when that person died.” J.D. finished the thought. “Still, this is small town. I think we can brainstorm a list of people who fit the bill: violent, mean, might have had an accident or something at some point, connect to the vics. Hey, it’s more than we had before.” He slapped Sam on the back, grinning as he flipped his notebook closed. “I’ve got a case to work on, so I better get back to the station. Sam?”

“You’re welcome to stay here,” Marie offered. “This is my prime writing time while the kids are in school. Johnny has band practice after school and Jules has drama club so they won’t be home until after 5 p.m. Place is ours. We can set up a murder board in my office.”

For the first time in a long while, Sam felt like they were making progress, that they were one step closer to figuring this out. “That sounds great. Coffee’s better here than the station.”

**1983**

“Look, you boys are welcome to stay here,” Bill offered as they passed through the foyer on their way to the side door where they’d parked the car. A beautiful set of wooden stairs curved gracefully upwards to the second floor, the basement door tucked under them. Across from the stairs, the front door was in a darker alcove, beveled glass insert giving a view of the street where headlights came and went in the distance. “Got plenty of room in this old drafty place. Better than a hotel.”

Dean glanced over at Clint. He had that look on his face, the one that said they had some talking to do before the night was over.  As stubborn as he was, Clint was not going to let this go until he got Dean to spill it all.

“Thanks, but we’ll be coming and going at odd hours so it’s best we just stay where we are.” Dean shook the man’s outstretched hand. “Sorry again about the whole slicing you with a knife thing.”

“Better that than being shoved out of my own body,” Bill said with a laugh. “And that was a strange statement I never thought would be coming out of my mouth.”

The ghostly figure materialized right behind Clint, only her torso visible, bottom half dissolving into a white mist. From her clothing and hair style, Dean would guess she was from the late to mid Nineteenth Century, her hair pulled back in a loose bun and her calico dress buttoned all the way up to her neck.

“Clint. Behind you,” Dean warned. Without looking back, Clint took two steps forward then turned. The woman stayed where she was, bobbing gently up and down.

“Oh, that’s Aunt Agatha.” Bill’s voice was calm and matter-of-fact. “Flo’s great-great-great aunt. This is her family’s old house. Been a Grimes in this house since 1782.”

“You have a resident ghost?” Dean asked. From his experience, ghosts who lingered were very dangerous.

“A couple actually. Agatha usually doesn’t show up unless something’s happened to rile her. I guess all this talk of the wraith has upset her. She takes family seriously.” Bill didn’t move, even when Agatha floated closer to Clint, following him. “Or maybe it’s what happened to you.”

Agatha raised her hand and reached for Clint. “Dean?” he asked, uncertain and edging backwards.

“I don’t think you should let her …” Dean began. Fast as a will-o-the-wisp, Agatha slipped into Clint, disappearing inside his body. He froze, jiggled some, and then looked over at Bill and Dean.

“Oh, my, I am sorry,” he said. Well, it was Clint’s voice, but the phrasing and the tone were very different. He wiggled a little as if he clothes were just a bit too tight. “This is very inappropriate.”

“Get out of him,” Dean growled. Bill stood with his mouth hanging open.

“William, dear, you need to protect Marie. Don’t let her take that necklace off ever again. And I will leave Clinton for you, Dean, don’t worry.” Clint smiled, but it wasn’t his smile. Even the way he held himself was more feminine. For a moment, he/she seemed confused, his/her eyes wandering around the room.

“Agatha?” Dean prompted.

“Oh, yes! I remember. The bow. She’ll need the bow to finish her spell. The sacrifices are only enough to get her here.” Clint/Agatha answered. “But the bow isn’t the bow anymore. He knows where it went.”

“Spell?” Bill found his voice to ask.

“I was a witch, dear. Not a follower of Lilith, mind you. So glad that bitch is gone.”

Bill’s eyes opened wide in surprise at Clint/Agatha’s words. A mist formed around Clint, Agatha losing contact, fading out of Clint’s eyes.

“Wait, who knows? Who is he?” Dean asked.

She pulled back long enough to whisper one word.

“Hyperion.”

And then she was gone and Clint dropped to the floor.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Marie Oakes is patterned after a real person and her old house was haunted by an Agatha. Met that ghost a couple times late at night. Nice old lady who just didn't want to leave her home. Marie doesn't write mystery novels -- she's an accountant -- but she always dreamed of doing that. Otherwise, most of the rest is made up and I'm playing with the time and ages, etc to make this work. Except for the story of dancing on the car in the parking lot. That one really happened. *cough* I may or may not have been involved in the incident.


	5. Never Gonna Let You Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some truth telling and a turn ... things just might be looking up for the guys. Or trouble could be at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for how long this story is taking me. I'm usually much better about getting a chapter a week done, but the truth is I'm going through a down period right now and writing is really tough for me. I'll get it finished. I'm feeling better this week and got a lot of work done in the last few days.

**1983**

Clint had the strangest urge to pick up some needles and thread; many of Agatha’s memories were still floating around in his head. Having someone else inside his skin, a dead woman specifically, wasn’t the weirdest thing that had ever happened to him, though. He’d been controlled by Loki, thrust into alternate universes, and even turned into a dog one time. That memory wasn’t bad, considering where he’d ended up during a week of peeing with a leg up and drinking from a bowl.  Fortunately, the random images and memories were fading even as Clint shut the door to their hotel room behind him.  No more knowing how to can grape jelly or plait hair. He could turn his attention back to the case and, more importantly, figure out what was going on in Dean’s head. Kicking off his shoes, he poured a drink, sat down, and waited. Dean took his shoes and socks off and left them in the corner, both of them crusted with dried mud from the creek bank.  A few minutes in the bathroom, and Dean came back out, slid off his jeans and tossed them with the other clothes. Without speaking, he walked over and slipped a hand around Clint’s neck, bending down to bring their lips together for a soft kiss. Of all the outcomes Clint had posited for the way this evening was going to go, this was definitely not one of them. Dean Winchester, dropping down to kneel between his legs, kissing him like they were brand new lovers with easy, gentle brushes of lips? Not on his radar.

“Um, should I ask?” Clint got a few words out when Dean broke contact and sat back on his heels, running his thumbs down the side of Clint’s face, tracing along his jaw. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”

“Later.” Dean slid his thumb across Clint’s bottom lip, eyes fixed on the drag of skin. He stopped at the corner, thumb hanging as he splayed the rest of his hand, fingers slipping into Clint’s hair and down his neck. Leaning in, his lips brushed the other corner then nipped along the curve of the lower lip, sucking on it before running his tongue along the seam. Clint parted his lips and drew in a little breath, tendrils of heat lingering where Dean’s mouth touched.

“I can wait.” Clint relaxed, closed his eyes and focused his attention on the points of connection: warm palm on his neck, moist lips easing his mouth open, and Dean’s hips against his knees. Rather than increase the pressure of the kiss, Dean eased off and trailed along Clint’s jaw line, using his hand to tilt Clint’s head back, baring his neck to teasing caresses of lips and tongue in the hollows and along the ridge of muscle. It was an onslaught, make no mistake, but undemanding and leisurely, a thousand tiny nibbles whose sum was more than their parts. Enticing and hot as hell, Clint felt like he was being drawn out of his body with each touch. When Dean slid his other hand under the edge of his shirt, Clint moaned at the strokes of fingertips against his skin. He lost track of time, unsure how long they stayed there, Dean’s mouth roving behind Clint’s ear, switching sides, returning to his mouth.  His shirt slipped up and Dean’s fingers drew patterns across his abs.

“Up,” Dean said. He pulled Clint with him. “Let’s move this somewhere more comfortable.” Dean’s shirt went over his head then he caught the edge of Clint’s and helped remove it.  Clint’s jeans were next; Dean drained the whiskey in Clint’s glass before he tugged him down on the bed, nothing but the cotton of their briefs between them.  Drawing him close, Dean wrapped his arms around Clint, both of them on their sides, facing each other, and the kissing started again, lengthy and languid. Dean’s hands roamed in continuous caresses, and Clint gave in to the slow burn, riding the tension building in his chest.  Strong arms held him, hands calloused from guns traced his muscles, stubble scratched his neck, and he felt like he was floating in limbo, no rush, no hurry. As his cock grew harder, he tucked the last of his worry away; Dean would tell him what was up in his own time and, damn if this wasn’t erotic … yeah, no, he wasn’t going with romantic, so he’d say tender … and something he never knew he wanted until this very second.

He had his own desires to fulfill, free to run his hands anywhere; following the line of Dean’s hip, Clint cupped Dean’s ass, slipping his leg between Dean’s and snuggling his thigh against the weight of Dean’s cock. The friction of Clint’s movement made both of them moan. Tangling his hand into Dean’s hair, Clint changed the kiss, tongue delving into Dean’s mouth; Dean rubbed down against the thigh in response. After more grazes of lips and sliding of bodies, Dean shifted, bringing their cocks in line and grinding them together through the cotton fabric, keeping the same lazy pace as before. The maddening slowness was starting to get to Clint; by the clock on the end table, they’d been kissing for over forty-five minutes, and he was pretty sure he’d hit his limit of sweet and gentle. Bucking into Dean, he thrust his hips and groaned into Dean’s mouth.

 “Thinking about going somewhere with this?” he asked. Dean grinned and rolled over, reaching for the lube and condoms in the drawer and tossing them to Clint.

“Going anywhere you want.”

He thought about it for a moment, Dean so obviously needed this and Clint could definitely take care of him, wanted to do it in fact. That wraith had gotten in his head, messed around, and Clint certainly understood how that felt, so he would take his time, open Dean up real slow and thorough. They wiggled out of their underwear and Clint tugged Dean back on his side, wiggling an arm under Dean’s chest and hooking Dean’s leg over his own. With slick fingers, he traced along Dean’s spine, between his cheeks, and circled him, swallowing the gasp of pleasure with his mouth, coaxing out more moans with his tongue tracing along the sensitive lines of Dean’s ear. Now it was Clint who was in no rush, settling a torturously slow pace of in and out, stretch and stroke that left lots of room to lick and nuzzle and bite along Dean’s shoulder and across his chest. One finger turned to two and Clint found the perfect spot to make Dean jump and moan, so he did, repeatedly, pressing and dragging and rubbing just to feel the heat of Dean’s exhales on his skin as Dean buried his face into the crook of his neck. The third finger took Dean to the edge, his cock hard against Clint’s hipbone, and still Dean didn’t make any demands, just let Clint draw this out to the inevitable conclusion. Knowing he could take Dean over at any second, without any more than this, was a heady feeling. Clint stopped shy of thinking how he could spend the rest of his life like this, coming back to this man who made him laugh, challenged him, gave him grief over his foibles, made him so damn horny, and engaged in every freakin’ kink Clint could come up with … well that was admitting Dean Winchester might be more than a buddy or partner or casual lover and that complicated matters now, didn’t it?

He didn’t want to be on top or on bottom, Clint realized, so he nudged Dean to roll over on his other side, facing the wall, and spooned up behind him after rolling the condom on. Dean got the idea and bent his top leg, leaning slightly forward to balance on his knee, so Clint could rub his cock between Dean’s legs before he pushed into the tight heat.  Chest to Dean’s back, Clint could hold on, run his hands down the long length of Dean’s body to stroke his cock, and lick a stripe up the side of Dean’s neck all at the same time.

“This what you want?” He asked, lips on the ticklish spot behind Dean’s ear. He eased back out and slid back in, nice and slow. “Me all around you. Holding you. Stroking you. Kissing you. Inside you.” All the way out except for the very tip, Clint paused there until Dean arched his back and shifted his hips, forcing Clint a little deeper.

“Stop teasing,” he bitched in a breathy moan that made Clint smile.

“I got the slow and steady memo,” Clint replied, adding a little twist of his wrist as he circled the head of Dean’s cock.

“About that …” Dean’s arm crossed over Clint’s and grabbed his ass, urging him on. “Change of plans.”

Clint pushed back in and add a snap of his hips just at the last, earning a satisfied sigh from Dean. “Like that?”

“Yeah.” Dean rocked back and circled his hips.  “That’s getting close. Keep working on it.”

“Close?” Out and back in, a fast thrust and a harder snap, and Dean bit his lip as he groaned. “Oh, I’ll work something, that’s for sure.”

Dean turned his head, caught Clint’s mouth in a searing kiss, and there was no more talking. Pushing Dean forward, Clint found the perfect angle to hit his target every time, wringing a litany of curses and gasps and even a few sobs that he swallowed down as he plundered Dean’s mouth. Despite the long build up, Clint held back and it was Dean who came first, spilling over Clint’s fingers as he braced himself on the bed to keep from sliding over the side. It was easy for Clint to finish, the muscles spasming around his cock pulling him over into his own orgasm within a few more thrusts. Making no move to leave the bed, Dean grabbed Clint’s messy hand and tucked it under his own, pressed against his stomach. Clint’s weight was partially forward, covering Dean, but when he slipped out and started to roll back, Dean stopped him, catching one of Clint’s feet and tangling it with his own.

“This, this moment. That was what it was like.” Dean explained. “Not sex, per se, but the feeling afterwards when you’re warm and satisfied and drowsy … sated. Nothing like a djinn; they give you your perfect world but it’s all an illusion while they feed off of you. No, this was memories of … happiness. Those few seconds when you have no worries, when you feel safe and loved and content.”

“Doesn’t sound all that bad, honestly.” Clint knew Dean was talking about the wraith; all the victims had died peacefully. Happy made sense.

“Not bad at all. That was the problem. Kind of like seeing your life flash before your eyes, only it was a very short flick.” Dean tried to laugh it off, but the two of them were alike in so many ways that it was eerie, and Clint knew exactly what Dean was saying. They were both the type of man who was sure they didn’t deserve anything good or that they’d end up destroying it.

“Alright, I’m calling horseshit here.” Lifting on one elbow, Clint looked down at Dean and decided, screw it. If he fucked this up, he fucked it up. “Truth is, we’re the ones who don’t let ourselves be happy.” The edge of Dean’s lips curled up just a bit and he cocked one eyebrow at Clint, waiting to see where he was headed. “For example, instead of admitting I wouldn’t mind coming off a crapfest of a job knowing there was whiskey, a greasy burger, a piece of pie and good company waiting for me with a possibility of ending the evening buried balls deep in your very fine ass, I just won’t say anything. Instead of waking up from that blue eyes and ice dream with you half on top of me, able to sync my breathing to yours and slow down my heart rate to get back to sleep, I’ll wake up all alone and lay there staring at the ceiling because that’s for the best, right? ‘Cause heaven forbid I say anything out loud like ‘hey, Dean, I really like what we’re doing’ or ‘hey, want to do this more often ‘because it makes me happy?’.”

Dean stared for a moment, his mouth opening with a few false starts before he finally replied. “Balls deep? That’s what you go with?” He broke out into a goofy grin. “I mean, I’ll take the fine ass because, hell yeah, that’s true, but really?”

“Excuse me, but I was being all heartfelt and everything, and you fixate on that?” Clint swatted Dean’s ass, worry evaporating. “Think you could do better?”

“I’ll give you the burger and the pie – especially the pie. The dream, however, would be fire and screams, and I’d go with the classic fucking your brains out, preferably in the backseat of the Impala.” He was chuckling now, pushing away and rolling off the bed, reaching a hand down for Clint. “I’m covered in dried jazz and you’ve still got a used condom on. I think a shower’s in order. We can discuss the correct wording once we’re clean. But I’m going to come on out on top.”

“Dream on, Dean. Dream on.”

**NOW**

The place was a dive, just the kind of joint Dean would love. Wood paneling on the walls, neon beer signs, red checkered plastic tablecloths. Sam had to circle the block three times to find a parking spot for the Impala near the hidden white building in a strange little strip mall  two streets off the main drag in Oak Ridge. Obviously, Friday at 5:30 pm was a bad time to hit this place; people were spilling outside, waiting for some of the vinyl seats to be freed up. Fortunately, Sam spotted the wave of the man’s hand and managed to wind his way through the throng of people to one of the furthest most table, back against the wall.

“Sam, glad you could make it,” Phil Coulson said, standing up so Sam could maneuver his way past a group of people dressed in red football jerseys and the metal backs of the eight chairs haphazardly crammed around a table for four. Coulson had forgone the secret agent look Sam had seen him in the last time they’d met, opting for a pair of casual slacks and a long sleeve blue button down with a burgundy sweater. But it was the two women at the table that caught Sam’s attention. Carol Danvers looked as gorgeous as always – don’t think about her naked, handcuffed to the bed, screaming his name as she came … too late – even if she had dark circles under her eyes.  In her preferred color red, she looked like someone ready for a football game, jeans and sweater with a smart pair of black boots, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. Sam wasn’t exactly sure what to do next. It had been a while since they’d seen each other in person, even if they’d managed to keep texting and in contact despite a heavy workload on both their parts. Fortunately, Carol handled the situation by wrapping her arms around Sam and dropping a far from friendly kiss on the corner of his lips.

“Sam,” she breathed, her blue eyes widened, and, yeah, the spark was still there. He was getting hard while standing this close to her. “Sorry I missed your message. Cell service sucks in Wakanda.” She stepped away, reluctantly, and turned to the woman seated next to her. “Sam, this is Natasha. Natasha, this is Sam.”

The redhead looked Sam over, weighing and judging him in one fast glance, and he got absolutely no read on her at all. She was gorgeous – like drop dead, sexy as hell, green eyes that saw right through you gorgeous – and her red hair curled perfectly as it spilled down her back and over her black leather jacket. With a quirk of her red lipstick covered lips, she pulled a 20 dollar bill out of her back pocket and passed it over to Coulson who made it disappear.

“Sam. Nice to meet you,” she offered her hand, but no explanation.  “Sit. We have a lot to talk about.”

“Okay, what was that?” Carol demanded as Sam settled into his chair. A harried teenaged waitress carried over two large platters of pizza, piping hot, and dropped them off along with tiny paper plates and puny little plastic forks and knives.

“What something to drink?” the girl asked in Sam’s general direction.

“Beer? In a bottle. Anything local.” He said and got a quick nod before she ran off.

“Hope you don’t mind but we went ahead and ordered. Didn’t realize the first game of the season was tonight, so this place is going to get even more crowded.” Phil snagged the first piece of the loaded pie; Carol dived for the pepperoni, taking two for herself. Looked like it was every man for himself, so Sam took one of each, but not before Natasha had her own two, each on its own little white circle they called plates.

“No, that’s fine. I missed lunch, so I’m hungry.” The first bite was hot and gooey and greasy and good. Seemed there was a reason Big Ed’s was the pizza place of choice in town. Fortunately, the waitress dropped off his Amber Boch, so he could chase the food down to take another bite.

“Yeah, so, what was the bet?” Carol asked again after swallowing a mouthful of food. They were jammed around the table, and Sam’s leg was flush along hers, so a big part of the heat in his gut wasn’t just from the hot pizza.

“I thought Tony had exaggerated; Phil said he hadn’t,” Natasha shrugged. She moved with ease but Sam could see she was hyper vigilant, taking in their surroundings. Didn’t escape his notice she had her back in the corner with a view of everything. “You know how Tony goes on about Sam and Dean.”

“I could have told you Sam was good-looking,” Carol laughed. “For once, Tony wasn’t bullshitting.” She winked at Sam. “And you’ve seen Dean, right? So you should have known.”

“Actually, Clint’s been very tight lipped about the other Winchester. I haven’t seen a single picture.” Natasha systematically demolished her slices as she spoke, bites followed by sips of her soda. “You do know,” she looked directly at Sam, “if your brother hurts Clint in any way, he’ll answer to me.”

Sam stopped chewing to keep from choking and drank from his bottle to clear his throat. “Um, no, but I do now.” The redhead was scary, and that said a lot considering he’d faced down Lilith and worse along the way. Yeah, Natasha could give them all a run for their money.

“Stop scaring the man.” Carol patted Sam on the knee and it turned into a light caress. “I vouched for them.”

“Excuse me, but you’re sleeping with him, so that does make you biased,” Natasha shot back in a sweet voice.

“I’ve seen Dean with Clint; they’re good together. Hot. Might even distract you. Did I tell you about the pie Clint ordered in D.C.?” Carol wiggled her eyebrows, and Natasha’s answering smile was real.

“Ladies.” Phil’s tone was conversational and non-threatening, but it brought both of the women up short.

“Right,” Carol nodded, and just like that they were back to business. “Phil, you want to fill Sam in or shall I?”

Coulson ignored Natasha’s little cough and half-hidden grin at that statement. “We think we can retrieve Clint and Dean from the past.”

“How?” Sam jumped on that statement immediately.

“On September 12, 1983, there was an accident at Oak Ridge Labs involving an unstable radioisotope. The official incident reports all state that there was no disruption aside from a minor elevation of radiation levels, but eyewitness accounts are vastly different. Three people were seriously injured, one ended up in a mental hospital, and two simply disappeared,” Phil said. He passed over his tablet which held a series of photos, what looked like old Polaroid instant pics. The first showed a laboratory room with half of a wall missing and a circular gouge in the floor, tables cut in half. Inside the blast radius of about a foot and a half, glass was shattered, heavy steel burners and instruments thrown wide. One picture showed two scientists in white coats bending over another man with scorch marks on his hands and arms, his face obscured by the bodies of the others. Sam paused on the next pic, increased the magnification – how quickly he’d become addicted to the features on the tablet – and he put it down on the table. Two men were standing in the corner of the lab, out of the way of the EMTs who were working on the wounded. One, Sam had only seen in a photo on Marie’s … J.D.’s … desk at the precinct and hanging on the kitchen wall in Marie’s house. He had the same eyes and chin as J.D., and Marie got his nose. Their father was wearing a ball cap, jeans and a plaid shirt as he turned his head to speak to the police detective.

“Bob Woods and Bill Oakes. If they were there, odds are Dean and Clint were too … and you think they’re the two missing people?” Sam asked.

“Stephen Strange does. As he explained it, this specific lab is a nexus point, a place where time lines and ley lines come together; it’s the same lab where much of the work on the atomic bomb was completed,” Phil explained. “The accident weakened the temporal walls and allowed them to be pulled out of that time and into another.”

“But when? They aren’t here.” Sam ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. Carol’s warm hand slipped onto his knee under the table.

“They aren’t here yet,” she said. “We need to recreate the accident, now, in the same location. Something about harmonic resonances between catalysts? I’m not sure what that means, but he said you had to be there, that Dean would key off of you.”

“That I can believe.” Sam had to grin at the thought of Dean finding him across time. His brother had come back from much worse places, why not time travel? “So, how we do know when to do this? And how? I imagine you’ve got a plan.” That was something Sam had learned about Phil during the past months of talking to the man on the phone and sharing information - he was organized and always had twenty different options.

“That’s what we’re here for. Natasha can get us in and I can help replicate the energy signature of the isotope explosion.” Carol squeezed his knee. “Piece of cake.”

“When isn’t important; Strange says where and who matter.” Phil waved down the waitress for the check. “The exact same spot in the lab and you for Dean while Natasha exerts her pull on Clint.”

“Natasha?” Sam had to ask.

“Seems she’s a catalyst as well. Strange said it would be a good idea for her to be with us.  Good, but very, very dangerous.” Carol looked over at the redhead. “But that’s pretty much par for the course for us.”

“Tomorrow evening, about seven,” Natasha supplied; she eyed Sam’s muscles. “Assuming you can lift me?”

“I can do that.” For the first time since Dean disappeared, Sam felt this was finally nearing its end.

**1983**

He watched Clint shuffle through the files again as if some new bit of information would magically materialize. Dean knew the feeling; they were dead in the water with no way to determine where the wraith had gone. A wraith that was a ghost or whatever that smoke was. God, not a smoke monster, that would be too _Lost_ for him. Honestly, until the thing killed again – if it did – they were at a dead end. Time to change their focus towards Morwen and her plans. Adding to the handwritten list, Dean wrote “check for spells to bring back banished gods” then wondered exactly where he thought they were going to check. Maybe it was time to start thinking about calling in the cavalry - Clint could contact SHIELD and Dean had at least three names of the people who first helped his Dad get started in the business. They’d be around and might be able to help. If he could track them down.

He was momentarily distracted by Clint crossing the room to the fridge to get another beer; the man hadn’t bothered with more than just his jeans, and the acid wash pulled snug over his ass when he bent down. Great sex a short while ago didn’t preclude Dean from admiring the view and getting stirred up by it. After all, he figured they pretty much had come as close to “the talk” as they ever were going to and it looked like Dean was going to keep getting some of that fine ass, so, hey, things worked out for the best. The real problem with that damn wraith/ghost/cloud/thing … he had to come up for a better name for it … had been after it was gone. He felt so damn good in those few moments it had them, Zen-like and happy, so when it was ripped out of him it was a good high suddenly turning bad. Like a piece of him was missing, he wandered around the rest of the day, occasionally feeling phantom arms around him or seeing fireworks out of the corner of his eye. He’d started to feel like that guy Cipher in the movie _The Matrix_ , wanting to get reinserted so he didn’t have to face the reality of his life. He didn’t like it, didn’t want to feel the loss, and didn’t need anything or anyone to make him whole. Didn’t need Clint or Sam or … yeah, he’d been kidding himself, but that’s what he did the best, lied to himself.  The whole ‘let’s kiss Clint just to prove I don’t need it’ idea didn’t work out either. Sure, sex was the outcome, damn fine sex to boot, and Clint admitting he liked Dean (he was staying with the word ‘like’ for now. The other options were a little too daunting for him to contemplate), well, that was better than just good. But, if anything, the whole evening had shown maybe needing to be with someone – okay, Clint -- wasn’t all that terrible a thing to cop to.

“Toss me one of those,” Dean asked, waiting until Clint stood back up. Clint narrowed his eyes at that, and Dean brazened it out with a grin. Grumbling, Clint bent over again, and this time Dean whistled. He got his beer, and an exasperated shake of his head to go with it as Clint passed it over.

“Sometimes you’re 14-years-old,” he said with a sigh.

“And you love it,” Dean answered before he thought about it. Clint’s eyes crinkled at the edges and then he raised his eyebrows. “I mean, you like it … because you’re the same – a teenager sometimes.”

“Smooth, Dean, real smooth,” Clint laughed and Dean let out the breath he’d unconsciously held. Damn slip of the tongue. There was a bad joke there but before he could think of the exact words, a knock sounded at the door. With quick flicks of the eyes, they decided the plan; Clint grabbed Dean’s polo because it was closest and stepped back into the bathroom. Dean opened the door.

He was someone Dean would have walked past and never given a second look; khaki pants, yellow button down with blue stripes, a grey Member’s Only jacket, and a pair of big glasses. No more than 5’ 8”, at least in his late 30s, maybe early 50s, the man was nondescript with his brown hair and brown eyes.

“May I come in, Dean?” He asked, standing perfectly still, the only clue that he was more than he seemed.

“Depends. Who the hell are you?”

“Hyperion.”


	6. Baby Come To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit from a Titan, some help from the Avengers, and Clint and Dean make their way back to 2013. And now they have to cross the streams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And sassy pop culture references it is! :) 
> 
> I might have felt the need to write my dad into this story. Miss you, daddy.

**1983**

He should be used to this by now, Dean thought, drinking with a supernatural being that could make him disappear with just a thought. Really, what was the difference between driving into the battle of Armageddon and chatting with a Titan in his hotel room?  His life was so fucked up enough already.

“So, what brings you all the way from Mt.Olympus?” Dean always believed in the full frontal approach. Subtlety was Clint’s department. “Slumming?”

“I don’t think he’s from Olympus. Considering Zeus killed most of the titans, I doubt Hyperion would be welcome there.” Clint sat on the edge of the far bed, his bow laid out beside him, arrows leaning against the mattress. Hyperion had made no protest when he’d gotten the weapon out.

“You’ve been reading Hamilton again, haven’t you?” Dean tossed out; Clint knew more about this stuff than he did now. One day, he’d have to actually do some research. Maybe.

“Zeus has mellowed with age,” Hyperion said, sipping his whiskey. “But Olympus has fallen upon hard times; just not enough power for upkeep. I prefer Charleston, South Carolina. Seafood is fresh, downtown is delightful, and there’s a wonderful arts festival.”

“Ganked a couple nasty ghosts there once,” Dean shrugged. “Nice enough place.”

“Nice as this is,” Clint said, “what you’re doing here seems rather the question of the hour.”

“Ah, yes, human life spans, although in your cases shorter than normal. You heroes burn hot but quickly.” He looked so normal, nothing special; Dean wondered why he’d chosen that form. “The two of you are like roman candles; hard to miss when or where you are.”

“Live fast, die young …” Dean offered.

“… leave a good looking corpse,” Clint finished.

Hyperion sighed. “That is exactly what’s gotten you humans in so much trouble. Had Perseus been less an egotistical bastard, he could have lived a long happy life.”

“Great, now we’re going to get Greek Gossip Girl?” Dean kicked his feet up on the bed and slouched down in his chair. “Get to the good stuff already and skip the set up. You want us to do something for you. Spit it out.”

“I imagine she hated you. Strong masculine types confuse her; she either fucks them or kills them.” Hyperion gazed at both of them. “My father learned that.”

“Wait, wait. Morwen’s your mommy?” Dean shouldn’t be surprised. Cas had said Morwen was one of the original watchers. “Wow, the Titans are her kids.”

“Should have seen that one coming,” Clint agreed. “Look, we’ve already got that part. Original big bad, power got distributed, she got the boot. Now she’s back gobbling up what’s left. What we need to know is how to stop her for good.”

“Ah, what is it that doctor on TV says? Rip a hole in the fabric of time and space.” Hyperion laughed. “First she needs the spell the monster is weaving; he’ll have to start all over again now that you’ve disrupted the ritual. Twelve sacrifices, 20 years apart, makes the door and she can use her power to come through it.”

“So we stop the wraith alpha ghost demon thing … and jump in there with a better name if you want … and no door. We can do that.” Dean knew it was too easy, but, hey, maybe this time it would be.

“His name was Anticellus and he was the first born wraith. Now he’s a revenant, his spirit brought back from purgatory without his flesh. Nasty bit of work there. But ending him won’t stop her.”

“And just how do we do that? Gods and Angels couldn’t do it,” Clint said, straight to the point as always. “She got a magical ring we can drop in MountDoom or a tiny exhaust port no bigger than a wamp rat?” Dean snorted at that, he did so like Clint’s sassy side. Well, he liked every side of Clint, especially that very attractive backside. And when did he get to be in such a good mood? Yeah, sex did that for him.

“The one thing everyone will tell you not to do. I’m sure that angel warned you about catalysts, how two are bad enough, but three? History bears that out. Every time there’s been three or more together, shit gets done but at a high price. How much damage did New York City sustain after the Chitauri attack? Six. That was six catalysts and look how hard it is to keep them balanced.” Hyperion explained.

“Makes sense,” Clint shrugged. “We’re rarely all together, usually off on our own jobs. Just for the really big, Earth-ending kinds of things.”

“And you, Dean. How often have forces conspired to break you and Sam apart? Add in any others like Robert Singer or Ellen Harvelle and the potential is exponential.” He chuckled. “Even your angel friend, Castiel, is a multiplication factor; team free will indeed. You beat Lucifer with just four of you.”

“Yeah, but lots of people died.” It stuck in Dean’s craw that he hadn’t been able to save more of them, to stop it earlier. “You’re saying we caused that by working together?”

“No, no. The causal relationship is much more complex. Focal points come together when there’s a danger to the world; stronger the danger, more powerful the catalysts and larger the numbers. To every action and all.” Hyperion shook his head at their confusion. “Haven’t you ever wondered why the challenges keep getting harder and yet you still defeat them? How the right people are in the right places at the right time?”

“Coincidence?” Dean was getting uncomfortable with this whole explanation. He didn’t care for any answer that smacked of predestination; he was in charge of his own life, thank you. “Don’t tell me it’s all God’s plan. Been there, didn’t do that.”

“Hardly. No more than the way water runs downhill or helium makes balloon float. It’s the way this particular universe works. Heroes rise to the need because they’re the ones willing to make the sacrifices which you both know all about.”

“So we get a gang … gaggle? Herd? Flock? … of these catalysts and go after Morwen, then what?” Clint asked. “If this were 2013 I could call up Phil and have them here in under an hour. But where?”

“Ah, now that is the correct question. When isn’t important. It’s all about where. Some locations exert a gravitational pull. New York City, for example. More catalysts per square foot than anywhere else in this monster-sized country.”

“You couldn’t just tell us, eh?” Dean hated that crap. Answering with a question or answering without really answering. “And what do we do when we get there?”

“Don’t worry. Like calls to like. Just be in the right place.” He smiled. “Most important thing is to be there when she tries to come through. Get as many of you as you can manage. Target the rift, not her. And be ready for the fallout.”

“A hole in the fabric of space and time? Shall we call the Doctor?” Clint quipped. Dean raised an eyebrow. “You’ll love Ten.”

“Hey, no, we already tried that. D.C. remember? There was enough firepower there to blow her out of this world for good. This is just the same damn thing over again.” Dean was starting to get pissed; if this was all Hyperion had to offer …

“I believe Stephen … Doctor Strange you call him … warned about the danger of energy interaction with the dimensional portal he opened, did he not?” Now the Titan sounded like Dean’s seventh grade science teacher, Mr. Morgan. Dean hated that guy; he droned on while the head cheerleader Amanda Quicking sat just close enough for Dean to smell her shampoo.

“Carol and Tony had to be careful not to hit the rift,” Clint nodded. “Or big badaboom.”

“That would be bad. Total plotonic reversal. I remember.” Dean thought about it for a second. “Ohhhhh, cross the streams and the chick is toast. I get it!”

Hyperion stood, obviously ready to leave. “I’d say good luck, but luck has little to do with it at this point.”

“Wait, what about Anticellus? The icons, gathering up power, all of that?” Dean demanded.

“I wouldn’t worry about Diana’s bow. It’s in a good place.” He glanced at both of them in turn. “As to Anticellus, K-25 East wing Lab 47. I think you’ll find him there.” With that, he was gone.

**NOW**

Sam woke to the warm weight of Carol against his chest, her breath even and soft on his neck. The memory of the night before cleared; leaving the restaurant, heading back to his hotel, the talk … he’d been a real idiot about the whole Carol situation. Usually, he was the one off on a job, unable to stay in a relationship. First time the roles were reversed, he’d immediately assumed the worst. But then, he’d never been sleeping with a superhero before, and she’d been pretty direct about her interest. All of which led to a round of really great sex in Carol’s room – because they were staying in the Doubletree and it was much nicer – and the first night of decent sleep he’d gotten since Dean had disappeared.

“It’s okay, you know.” Carol shifted and opened her eyes. “I can guarantee that Clint’s gotten into Dean’s pants more than once.”

“You can read minds too?” Sam stretched and slid a hand down her back.

“Nope. Just getting to know you.” She snuggled against him, not a morning person.

“I’ve got a meeting this morning with J.D. and Marie.” Not that Sam wanted to get up, but he owed it to the two siblings. He rolled over and sat up. “Come with me. We’re getting breakfast.”

In the end, both Natasha and Carol decided to go and neither J.D. nor Marie seemed too distraught to meet colleagues of Clint’s, although Marie had a gleam in her eye that suggested she wanted some time to talk to a SHIELD agent. The restaurant was a home town kind of place, just the sort Dean would have picked, named after an old TV show with Bea Arthur and Rue McClanahan that, ironically, was on the air in the 1980s. Everyone but Carol looked at Natasha when she ordered the full country morning breakfast and asked for extra-large juice; Sam stuck with the pancakes. The food was fresh and homemade, nothing frozen, and when it came he had to admit, it was pretty good.

“So, you want to get into K-25? You do know that most of the buildings have been demolished. Only a bit of the Eastern wing is still standing and everything’s fenced off for safety. They’ve got crews for both the take down and the environmental cleanup working out there,” J.D. said in response to Sam’s question. “Security is really tight after that last break-in, an environmental group staging a protest and two of them got trapped in one of the half-collapsed basements. Not to mention the kids who think it’s some sort of rite of passage to spend the night out there. Ghost stories and all sorts of monsters they dream up. The Oak Ridge police are constantly being called out. That’s why the labs hired their own firm to shut down access.”

“Permission would make it easier,” Natasha answered, “but we don’t really need it.”

“Oh, I so don’t want to know that.” J.D. shook his head.

“I can get you in,” Marie offered, holding her coffee cup in both hands. “What?” she said when J.D. glared at her. “Remember _Half-life_? I got a personalized tour while I was doing research for that book. They were glad to have the positive publicity.”

“ _Half-life_? You write the Detective Vincent mysteries?” Carol’s face lit up and she leaned forward. “I love those!”

“Yes,” Marie ducked her head a little, half embarrassed. “I do.”

“Nat, remember I gave you the one about the Russian spy in Charleston?” Carol turned to the red head who had already finished her food and was snagging Carol’s bacon.

Green eyes surveyed Marie and she shrank a little into herself. “Excellent portrayal of an ex-Soviet spy,” Natasha said. “So few people get the sense of disconnection between the people and the government right.”

“Th-thank you,” Marie took a breath and accepted the compliment. “I talked to a number of sources and read a lot to get Dobrov’s character to where I wanted it to be. My editors said the ending was too harsh, but I couldn’t see him doing anything else.”

“No, you were correct. There are no happy endings for men like him.” Natasha paused. “Are you going to finish that biscuit?”

Marie slid the plate over. “Try the blackberry jam. They make it themselves. Let me go make a few calls and see what I can do. The head of Casper Construction went to high school with me; I might be able to get us in today.”

“Just us,” Sam said as Marie stood, taking her phone out of her pocket. “It’s too dangerous for you …”

“Oh, please. You think I’m going to miss watching two Avengers in action? Best research opportunity I’ve had in years.” She walked to the front door to search for better reception.

“Avengers?” J.D. asked. “Wait. You’re…” It hit him then, as he looked at the two women. “Oh. Damn. Clint too? Shit. The bow. I am an idiot.” He dropped his head in his hands.

**1983**

“I told you this would be easier with us here,” Bill Oakes said as they drove past the main gate of the facility. “They’d never have bought the Department of Energy surprise inspection story. You guys might be good, but this is a nuclear facility with enriched uranium. You’re not just going to waltz in.”

Bob XXXX tucked his police I.D. back into his jacket pocket as he pulled the car into a parking place. “Good thing I know the chief of security here. Otherwise, you’d be making your one phone call from the F.B.I. office in Knoxville.”

It hadn’t taken long for Dean and Clint to track down Anticellus; a call to Bob had netted a long list of spousal abuse calls to the house of one Joseph Kiger, lab technician at K-25. The police had his records flagged; they were called out so often by neighbors complaining of screaming and, a couple times, a drunken man on the lawn with a shotgun. Clint was surprised that Joe still had top secret clearance, but there were no actually charges filed in any of the incidents, so that meant his official records were clear. But the winning call was just last night, when the husband had come home and, in a fit of anger, trashed the yard, running over the wife’s rosebushes with his truck. When the police had arrived, the next door neighbor was in a screaming match with Joe on the front stoop and his wife was gone, off to her mother’s, Joe had claimed. The report noted that Joe, who’d been drinking at a local bar in Clinton at the same time the wraith had fled the high school, was more agitated than usual, ‘impossibly angry.’ Right place, right time, and one very pissed off revenant. It made sense.

What Clint hadn’t expected was the sheer stubbornness of Bob and Bill; he didn’t really think they’d actually call and warn the guards like they threatened, but then, he wasn’t sure. Dean had shrugged and gotten into the back seat of Bob’s non-descript police sedan after loading the silver laced salt rounds into his sawed off shotgun Bill  had helped them make and tucking the salt bags into their pockets. All four of them had silver knives tucked in their pockets and the plan was simple. Get everyone else out, trap Kiger in the lab with the salt, and use the silver to kill the wraith.

Hanging over all of the plans were the cryptic words Hyperion had said about time and space; like calls to like, he’d said, and Clint had immediately thought of magnets, attracting each other across the table. What it meant, he didn’t have a clue and Clint hated the woo-woo crap type of answers that gods and monsters and Nick Fury liked to give. Tell it to him straight up, that was what he wanted, none of this poetry riddle shit. For all he knew, they’d get this thing, end the killings and then be stuck here. Maybe Castiel would show up again and pop them back, or maybe they’d just have to get used to Michael Jackson songs on the radio again.

Dean had hiding shotguns down to an art; usually multiple layers helped, the odd lumps under heavy canvas and flannel obscuring the weapon. The cotton thin Member’s Only jacket didn’t work as well, but it was amazing what you could fit into a big briefcase if you got the right one. Still, they stood out among the men with button up shirts, dark ties, and pocket protectors filled with pens and mechanical pencils who roamed the hall. Bob stopped them at one door and waited until he caught the eye of a tall, skinny man with coal black hair cut in a neat haircut that was popular in the 1950s, the slightest shine of pomade in the thick comb over. A slide rule protruded behind his pocket protector and he wore thick black safety frames.

“Bob? Bill? What are you doing here?” The man stepped outside the office and shut the door. “Everything okay? The girls okay?”

“They’re great, Tom. We just need an escort back to lab 47, if you’re willing,” Bob said.

“This have something to do with the school?” Tom asked, glancing over at Clint and Dean.

“Guys, this is O. M. Thomas. His daughter is Marie’s best friend. Tom, this is Clint Barton and Dean Winchester.” Bill handled the introductions. “They saved Marie and J.D. yesterday, and they need our help to make sure no one else is hurt.”

Dark brown eyes stared them down, noticing every little detail; Clint was certain the man knew exactly how many weapons they had on them in seconds. “Give me a second,” he said, stepping back in the office to grab a long, black umbrella that was slightly bent in the middle. “Okay, let’s go.”

Clint had to admire the way these men were handling the situation. He was used to the odd and strange, but these fathers and police officers had something stronger. They were protecting their families and friends. The whole way to the lab, through two more checkpoints that Tom smoothly ushered them through without a pat down, they talked about a fishing trip that Bill and Tom were planning up in Canada to catch wall-eyed pike. Pausing outside the door, the three men waited for Dean and Clint to give instructions; Clint nodded for Dean to go ahead.

“First thing is get everyone else out of the room except for Kiger. Bob and Bill have the salt for the windows; Tom, can you take the others?” Dean asked. If the question bothered Tom, he didn’t show it, just nodded in agreement.

“Safety protocols should work. I’ll pull the alarm soon as you’re in.”

“Once we have him, make sure you get out and then salt the door from the outside, got it?” Another set of nods. “Good. Let’s do this.”

Dean opened the door and Bob led the way inside; the alarm went off seconds later. Clint took it all in with a glance – black topped tables with big boxy computers, beakers and Bunsen burners, workstations with technicians in their white coats. Two rooms, an opening between, banks of windows on the farthest wall with wired diamond safety glass. The second Kiger saw them, he grabbed the woman next to him, wrapping an arm around her neck, long spike protruding from his palm aimed at her neck. Bill salted the windows while Dean and Clint circled the wraith; two more scientists were trapped in the far corner, cowering behind a work table.

“Well, boys, that was fast work.” Kiger tugged the woman along as he backed towards a ventilated work station. “Doesn’t matter though. You can kill this body, but you can’t get rid of me. One of the benefits of this new form.  Don’t like the side effects – have to feed again and again to get the same rush – but eternal life is a worth it.”

“Not exactly eternal. Revenants can be dispersed just like ghosts,” Dean explained, easing towards him as Clint circled to the left, boxing him in. The monster didn’t expect to get out of this with his body; exactly what his plan was, Clint was trying to figure out.

“Hard to find my bones to salt and burn plus dose with silver at this late date,” he countered. “So, unless you covered all the vents, I’m out of here. But not before I take care of the two of you.”

He whirled, shoving the woman at Dean; she went down like a sack of flour and Dean caught her before she hit the floor. Clint couldn’t cover the distance in the seconds before Kiger grabbed two test tubes and crashed them onto the concrete at his feet. One of the scientists screamed and rushed for the emergency lock down button. The chemicals splattered together, mixing with the air and combusting, a puff of acrid smoke expanding with a crackle. Kiger’s mouth opened and a cloud of black smoke poured out, his body dropping down. Twirling, Dean shoved the woman out of the way, pushing her behind the table just as the explosion ripped through the lab.

Or didn’t. Clint blinked and it seemed as if time suspended, a small ball of energy hanging a foot off the floor, black mist roiling in place, trapped.  A vertical shimmer appeared and slowly parted like a curtain opening.

“Dean,” he shouted. “Time and space.”

Dean was holding onto the table but sliding slowly towards the rift. “Not until he’s gone.” He nodded towards the revenant which was breaking up and being sucked into the shimmer along the edge and dispersed. Like with a gravitational pull, Dean was being reeled in.

“Dean!” Sam’s voice echoed. “Come through!”

“Not without Clint!” He reached out and grabbed Clint’s arm, his hand closing around Clint’s bicep. It was like an electric shock; a band settled across Clint’s chest, yanking him.

“Damn it, Clint, get your ass back here.” Natasha was as calm as ever. “Stark is driving me crazy.”

Clint looked at Dean and they silently agreed; letting go they tumbled into the future.

**NOW**

They rolled to a stop against the wall, a tangle of limbs and expletives. Dean separated himself first, unwinding their bodies. His head hurt and he’d hit his elbow somewhere along the way, a sharp pain that added to his aches. But he’d know the hand that tucked under his arm to help him up anywhere.

“About damn time,” he grumbled, but he slapped Sam on the shoulder. “Another day or two and I’d have a sparkly glove and a monkey named Bubbles. Took you long enough.”

“Takes a while to open a portal in time, Dean. Even with help.” Sam gave him his long-suffering little brother look which was all well and good, but Carol was standing right behind him and Sam had that little guilty tell at the corner of his eye. Yep, they’d had sex recently. Good, he could use that. Then his eye fell on the very sexy red-head beside Clint.

“Hey,” he wiggled his eyebrows at her; her stare could melt paint off the wall.

“Natasha, Dean. Dean, Natasha.” Clint waved his hand. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t kill him right now, Nat. Be a shame to mess up that vintage jacket with blood stains.”

“Is that a Member’s Only jacket?” Sam asked. “Hold on, I have to get a picture.”

 


	7. Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in the present, Dean and Clint eat pancakes and plan their next move. Too bad someone else has other ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to be so long about this chapter. I was struggling with a little writer's block, but I'm past it now.

**THEN – Operation Pegasus Somewhere in the Heartland**

“You have heart.”

Loki’s spear touched Clint’s chest and a curtain of blue descended, pushing him into his head, taking control of his body. It grew and grew, taking over every nook and cranny, leaving him nowhere to go but to be tamped down and constrained. Nowhere, except a dark little corner that had escaped notice, locked away behind dark veils that he crashed through as he looked for a place to hide.

“Sir, Director Fury is stalling.” Mouth moved and brain offered up the information despite his every attempt to stop them.

“Well, then …” Loki said.

Body was moving, arm coming up, gun aimed right at Nick’s head. _Chest_ , he thought, _bulletproof vest_. A calm fell and he made his arm drop, just the slightest, the difference between a double tap and a nasty bruise. Gun went off, Nick rolled and fell, alive, but Clint couldn’t turn to look back as legs followed Loki out of the room.

“Hill, do you copy? Barton is …”

Spinning, he aimed at the spot Maria had been, not where she was going to be, and he saw her head disappear behind a crate. She’ll warn the others, he thought. Call Natasha, get Coulson to get everyone out. Even as he slid into the driver’s seat and pressed the accelerator, Clint found he could swerve at just the right moment to throw off the others’ aim, the smallest of control, but enough to make a difference.

He never questioned how.

**NOW**

“Oh, baby, I’ve missed you.” Dean ran his hand along the curve of his beloved Impala’s fender.  She looked good, all shiny and clean, so he couldn’t give Sam shit about abusing her. Still, he felt like he’d been cheating on her. “I’m sorry about the other car, but I had to get around somehow and you were still Dad’s back then.”

“Hey, the Chevy was a good car,” Clint protested, walking to the back door. He opened it, leaned in and ran his hand over the bow case. “Nice as my Hoyt was, and that was a classic bow, man, you, my baby are the sleekest and sexiest.”

“Dude. It’s a bow.” Dean leaned back against the shiny black metal, content to just give Clint grief to rile him up. He did so enjoy the back and forth, their version of foreplay.

“And this is just is a car,” Clint shot back. “But I’ll give you that she’s sexy if you agree my bad boy here is the hottest.”

“Ah, so your bow is male? Makes sense. Shooting arrows and all.” He saw the second Clint realized what he was up to, the little spark of humor in the man’s blue-grey eyes. Clint opened his mouth to send a retort.

“You two are a pair,” Sam complained, interrupting. “You’re happier about the car and the bow than the people. A thank you would be nice.”

“Sam. 1983, okay? If I never see an Izod again it will be too soon.” Dean flipped the collar down on his own shirt. “I can’t wait to get in a regular t-shirt again. And thank you, by the way. Even if we were doing damn fine on our own.”

“I kind of like the jacket though.” Clint wiggled his eyebrows at Dean, not letting it go. “Can’t believe you didn’t buy the pink one. Pink really brings out the green of your eyes. And think how it would have looked with the black of the Impala.”

“Two words. Acid wash,” was Dean’s reply. He didn’t care that they had an audience, one of whom, a knock-out red head, he only knew because Hera had decided to use that form to try and seduce him once. Well, seduce him and Clint. At the same time. Which, had it been the real red-head, might not be completely out of the question, except for the fact that Clint said Natasha could kill both of them in a blink of an eye. That put a damper on things.

“Are they always like this?” Coulson asked Carol. Dean was still a little miffed at Coulson for taking that picture of him and Clint and sending it to Sam. Damn thing kept appearing as the laptop screen saver.

“This is tame. Sometimes they have phone sex right in front of you without the phone,” Carol replied. “Not even subtle double-entendres. Just flat out foreplay.”

“Hey, if it works, why fix it?” Clint asked. He’d shut the door and was leaning next to Dean now.

 “We need to get moving on this case.” Natasha told Clint. “Five minutes should be plenty. You like the car so much, do it there. We’ll be over here when you’re done.”

 “Sorry, but I’m a thirty minute minimum man. Besides, we’ve done the hood and the back seat already. The front seat would be cramped with the bow.” Clint was in rare form; he bumped his hip against Dean’s and waited for Dean to back his play.

“Don’t look at me,” Dean said, not because he didn’t enjoy the game, but Natasha scared him. More than a little. “You’re the one digging this hole for yourself. I vote we move this someplace with food since my stomach is about to eat its way out of my body. Thirty minutes indeed.”

“You’re just not interested because there’s no pie,” Clint argued back. “We get you something sweet and you’ll be ready to go.”

They could have gone on that way, annoying everyone else for a bit longer, but Marie came out of the building. She and J.D. had distracted the security guard to give the others time to open the rift.

“Oh my God,” she said. “You look exactly the same, right down to the clothes. Wow, that was a bad fashion style, wasn’t it? I can’t believe I thought those turned up collars looked good.

“Nice to see you grown up again,” Dean said. “I mean, you were cute back then, but major jail bait. Dancing on top of cars, running right into danger … no wonder you became a cop.”

“Oh, God, I forgot you saw that!” Marie laughed at the memory. “Please don’t tell my kids, okay?”

Kids? When did Marie have kids? Dean distinctly remembered the photos on her desk of pets, not children. Time travel really messed with his head. Next time he saw Cas, he was going to give the angel an earful. Speaking of which, they hadn’t heard from Cas in quite a while.

“Did we do it? Stop the murders?” Clint asked, dropping back into his business persona without a pause. He had a better handle on the ins-and-outs of date hopping. “I’d hate to have made the trip for nothing.”

“No deaths  since the attempt on my life in ’83.” J.D. answered coming up behind his sister. “Had Sam not been here, we probably wouldn’t even remember the other timelines. Everything is fading pretty fast.”

“Holy crap. You’re J.D.” Dean eyed the man carefully. Of course, they’d saved him back then. The gangly teen had grown up to be a very confident … and handsome … man. Who’d have thought?

“Actually, he’s the police detective not me.” Marie patted her brother on the back, pride on her face. “I just write about fictional ones.”

“Hey, best sellers there, sis. Don’t forget that little fact,” J.D. added, slinging an arm around her. Whatever else had changed, the two of them seemed very close now.  “This could be a plot for one of your books. And you know Dad’s going to love seeing these guys. I swear he was holding on from sheer cussedness until you came back.”

“Bill’s alive? And Bob and the other guy, what was his name?” Dean asked. They’d just left the other men, the ones who’d risked their lives and jobs to help them.

“Tom, I think,” Clint supplied. That was it. Tom Thomas.

“All of them were fine that day. Bob managed to deflect most of the police questions; the adventure changed him. He applied himself to the job, got serious about it; he’s the Commissioner now, has been for the last six years. Dad kept us quiet and eventually it all died down. Tom was feted as a hero for dragging a few of the lab techs out of the room.  Unfortunately, he died a few months later in a car accident,” Marie filled them in. Dean felt a pang of sympathy for the man he’d only briefly met, who’d gotten them past security.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Coulson injected. “Much as I’m enjoying old home week and the witty banter, our little experiment might attract some unwanted attention, so I suggest we change venues.”

He was right. Dean reached his hand out to Sam for the keys; Sam just sighed and dropped them in the open palm.

“I’ll ride with Carol,” Sam said. “You two can have the front seat.”

Yeah, those two had been at it. Dean was proud of his little brother.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

The IHOP beside the hotel wasn’t exactly the best location for a group meeting, but their standard rooms really weren’t big enough and it seemed that tripping through a rip in the fabric of time and space left Dean and Clint hungry enough to eat an endless stack of pancakes even if it was close to eight p.m. In their back corner booth and tables, they crowded around, everyone else watching as Clint demolished his first plate of double blueberry pancakes with a side of sausage and eggs over easy. Dean had opted for the cherries cream Belgium waffle (because cherry pie, duh) and he was polishing it off as he ordered a second round of peach vanilla stuffed French toast. The others had smaller fare, Coulson and J. D. opting for just coffee and Marie hot tea. Carol eyed Sam’s spinach, pepper and cheese melt as she ate her own bacon cheeseburger, sneaking extra fries when she thought he wasn’t looking. Natasha picked at her grilled chicken salad.

“Angels and titans?” Carol shook her head. “I’ve completely lost count of who’s who in this crazy game. Far too many characters to keep track of. Now we’ve got winged cherubs and pre-gods? Yeah, no. Thanks anyway.”

“Question is, do you trust this angel Castiel or is he part of Morwen’s program? Hyperion definitely is suspect.” Natasha actually had her phone out, taking notes. “That gives us vampires, arachne, ninja fighters, werewolves all firmly in the Morwen category. Hera, Hecate, the so-called King of Hell, Artemis, Castiel, and Hyperion in the ‘out for their own good’ list, and us in the good guys column.”

“Castiel is a good guy, one of the few angels who isn’t a complete dick,” Dean protested around a forkful of waffle. “Sam and I will vouch for him. Just not dependable right now, what with the war in heaven and all.”

Natasha’s eyebrow arched up; Clint grinned at her. “Yeah, their lives are just as weird as ours,” he told her. Reaching across Dean’s body, Clint ran a forkful of his new order of red velvet pancakes through the pool of syrup Dean had poured. “Hyperion could be anybody’s guess; dressed up in a nobody special suit, but he seemed to be in the know more than anyone else. Maybe we should track him down and get some more answers. The whole ‘save the world by ripping a hole in it’ plan doesn’t sit well with me.”

“Come on, you want to fire some of those fancy exploding arrows into a rift,” Dean said. “Just to see what will happen.”

“Okay, yeah. But only if it really works to get rid of Morwen for good. Or if Mythbusters want to come film it. That might be fun,” Clint agreed.

“Any chance Castiel might be willing to shed more light on the situation now that you’ve changed the timeline?” Phil asked.

“We can try praying to him, but Cas keeps his own schedule. Dude is never around when you need him to be and won’t leave when you don’t want him invading your space.” Dean sounded so affectionate that Carol looked at Clint for his reaction. Clint just kept eating; he believed Dean when he said Cas was just a friend.

“As a complete outsider here,” J.D. interjected. “I have to say that letting this woman … goddess … whatever … back into the world sounds like an extraordinarily bad idea. And if this Titan guy is her nephew, he could be telling a lie to get you to help her.”

“Well, if I were writing the story, it would turn out that someone unexpected was working with her all along. Hyperion is too obvious; more like one of the other goddesses or this Crowley fellow.” Marie sipped her iced tea. Everyone turned to look at the siblings. “And there’s the hanging plot point, the third item of power. Hecate’s pin, Hera’s bowl, and Artemis’ bow. Two down, where’s number 3? Smoke and mirrors. I use that a lot in my plots. Go back to it and see what we’re missing.”

“No wonder you were a great detective and are a successful writer.” Dean put down his fork as he looked at her. “You’re right. We completely forgot Artie and her bow. Remember she stormed out of that meeting with the werewolf alpha? Hera’s been a total pain about her bowl and Hecate’s as close to a friendly as we get with the gods, but Artemis is a blank.”

“Actually, I was doing some research on that while you guys were in the ‘80s,” Sam said. “Had a lot of extra time on my hands when we hit the brick walls before a time shift.” Clint still hadn’t wrapped his head around the fact that more time had passed for the people who didn’t travel through time than for him and Dean. “The bow’s last known location was the British Museum; it made the news when they discovered the one they had was a fake. The working theory is that someone stole the real one and switched it out. Nothing since then.”

 “Why would it matter?” Carol asked. “Wasn’t the wraith killing people part of a ritual to get her back to this world? Why would she still want the last item?”

“The theory was that she was taking back power that had originally been hers,” Sam said. “Consolidating until she was the top dog again.”

“Moose here is right.” Gabriel sat down on the bench next to Clint; everyone but Dean, Sam, and Clint jumped at his appearance. “But old Hyperion doesn’t know the Queen Bitch all that well any more. And you’ve forgotten something else.”  Gabe eyed Clint’s remaining pancakes.  “Are you going to eat those?”

“Gabriel. And here I thought you’d be getting busy with Kali; after all she made a deal to get your ass back. Must be love,” Dean said as Clint slid the plate over. Clint’s only experience with the archangel turned trickster turned pagan god was in Washington D.C. when the goddess Kali helped them in return for the power of Hera’s bowl to bring Gabriel back from the dead.

“Ah, fuck. That’s it. Hecate’s pin – Bridget used it to bring Samdei back. Kali went for Gabriel here. Artemis’s bow could be used for the same thing.” Clint was starting to put the pieces together.

“Give the boy wonder a cigar! I’d say you’re not as dumb as you look, but then there’s the sleeping with the tight ass over there. Of course, tight is good, right?” Gabriel waggled his eyebrows. Poor J. D. and Marie were staring at him, completely flabbergasted by his appearance. Phil looked as unflappable as always and Natasha was giving him her most suspicious gaze.  “Question is, who is pining for a lost love?”

“Maybe, someone who wants to bring Morwen back?” Carol suggested.

“BZZT! Wrong answer. Think about it. My money’s on Agatha Christie over here. Love your books, by the way. Big fan.” Gabriel winked at Marie.

“Um, thanks, I think.” She wrinkled her nose as she concentrated.

“The wraith was Morwen’s get out of chaos free card,” Clint argued. “She wouldn’t need Artemis’s power …”

“Go on, bow boy. You of all people should figure it out.” Gabriel snagged the waitress’s attention. “Hey, sweetheart, how about some of that crepe cake? A slice for everyone.”

“No, thank you,” Phil said to the waitress. Everyone else said the same, so she left to get Gabriel’s cake. 

“Oh, come on, guys. You only live once right?” Gabriel pouted. “Except for the Winchesters. What are you up to now, boys?  Sam’s seven or eight now? And Dean, babe, over a hundred, right?”

“You should know, you son-of-a-bitch.” Dean wasn’t happy at all with that reminder. Clint nudged him under the table; what was that all about? “But that’s not the point. Spill why you’re here and don’t forget we know how to send you back to purgatory.”

“And anger my flaming hot baby? Yeah, no.” Like magic, the waitress returned with a stack of crepes layered with vanilla cream and sat it down in front of the archangel. “Now this is living,” he said as he dug in.

“Who would benefit from the power?” Natasha asked, trying to bring them back on topic. “In each case so far, a deity has used the item to bring back someone she cared for. So who out there is pining over a lost love and has a tie to Morwen in some way?”

“Artemis.” Marie sat down her glass; all eyes turned her way. “Although why she doesn’t just use the bow herself, I don’t know, so that falls apart.” She shrugged helplessly.

“No, it doesn’t,” Clint said. “Hecate and Hera didn’t know where their items were; they’d lost them. And the bow is missing from the museum, so someone else took it and Artemis doesn’t know who did it or where they put it. But who does she want to resurrect?”

“Orion. Her one true love. Stories differ, but either she killed him by accident or Apollo had a hand in it,” Marie provided. J.D. nudged her. “What? I’m a writer. We have to know our mythology. It’s part of the job.”

“So she needs help finding it and makes a deal? What does Morwen get out of this?” Carol asked.

“How did Morwen bring the Wraith Alpha back? She’d need someone on this side to do it?” Sam threw out and looked to Gabriel for more answers.

“Hey! Not my problem, Gigantor. I shouldn’t even be here, but who can pass up an IHOP war council?” he protested.

“Why are you here?” Dean asked, leaning over the table towards the angel.

“Chill, Big Bro. I might owe you one, okay? I mean, you did help Fire Lips out, and, well, she kind of likes you, you know. Except for the arrogance part, but hey, nobody’s perfect.” Gabriel sat back, having finished his dessert.

“Then tell us where to find Artemis and the bow and we’ll call it even,” Clint said.

“Seriously, I can’t get over Big Winchester brother over there sexing it up with a guy. Never would have thought you had it in you, Dean. See what I did there?  In you?” Gabe said. “I’d have thought this lovely red head here would be more your style. Not that you’d have a chance with her, but you’d try and get shot down. I’d buy a ticket for that show.”

Natasha had had enough, Clint could tell from the way she tapped her fingers on the edge of the table. She never had patience for the mouthy talkers. “We’re happy to have your help,” she said, voice low and soft. “And I understand if you don’t want to go against the others to do more. But we’d … I would certainly appreciate it.”

“Oh, ho, no. Trickster. I’m not going to fall for the sweet little me act, lady. Not my type,” the angel protested.

“Alright then, how about tell us or I’ll stab you with this lovely shiny silver blade I took from Sam.” She laid the angel sword by her empty plate and smiled a true Black Widow smile filled with promises of blood and pain.

“Now that is more like it. I do have a thing for a strong woman.” Gabriel suddenly switched places with Carol to be next to Natasha; she squawked and stomped her foot.

“Don’t do that!” Carol complained.

“So tell me, is your bite really deadly? ‘Cause baby, I like it when it stings.” Gabriel paid no attention to Carol, focused intently on Natasha’s breasts.

“Not as much as it’s going to hurt when I tell Kali about this conversation,” she purred. “I think she’ll understand; she’s a calm and forgiving sort.”

Gabe’s face hardened and he sat back. “Damn it, you’re no fun. Can’t a guy flirt a little?”

“Artemis?” Clint prodded. Natasha ran her fingers over the silver blade.

“Oh, all right. I was going to tell you anyway. No need to get ugly. She’s hanging out with Mommy Dearest down in Cabo, last I heard. Call your buddy Old Man Gruff for a summoning spell.” Gabriel took the last bit of sausage from Clint’s plate.

“And the bow?” Dean asked.

“No need to find it. You’ve already got it.” At that, Gabriel’s face widened into a Cheshire cat grin.

“No we don’t,” Sam protested.

“Talismans don’t always have to be things, dummy. Sometimes, the god’s power can be put into a different kind of a vessel … a living breathing human.” He was enjoying himself, obviously.

“A person? Someone we know?” Carol asked.

“Duh. Artemis. Goddess of the hunt. Likes to shoot long pointy things with feathers on the end. Never misses …” he trailed off and looked right at Clint.

“Me? No. I don’t have any godlike power or anything.”  Clint couldn’t even begin to fathom what the angel was saying. “Hell, if I did I would have used it long ago.”

“If you didn’t, you’d have been dead a dozen times over. Seriously? How often can you make impossible shots, survive life threatening wounds, and hurl yourself into the line of fire before you suspect it’s not normal behavior?” Gabriel said.

“But … how? Why?” Clint’s tongue tripped over the words as he thought about it.

“Your buddy, Hyperion is my guess. He’s had a bug up his ass about Morwen forever. Probably took the bow, gave you the power and sat back. He’s a voyeur, likes to watch.” Gabe slipped his arm along the back of Natasha’s chair; she tapped the sword with her fingers and his grin widened. “You and Kali can never meet. I don’t think the world would survive.” With a snap of his fingers, Gabriel was gone.

“Do you believe him?” Natasha asked, taking the disappearance in stride. “I assume everyone lies.”

“Gabe does what’s best for him,” Dean shrugged. “But he does owe us, and we know the angels are worried about Morwen.”

“So we’re off to Cabo?” Carol asked as they all pushed back their chairs and Coulson gathered up the check to pay at the cash register up front.

“Oh, I think we can get Artemis here.” Clint winked at Dean. “Dean and I have an in with her mother.”

“I think I have the plot for my next book,” Marie said to her brother as they walked out the door and waited on the others. “Urban fantasy. A police detective who discovers that angels and demons are real. What do you think?”

“Your fans will love it,” J. D. said, holding the door for Carol. “As long as your detective has a smart mouth.”

“That’s the best part,” Natasha agreed. “I have a soft spot for cocky men with attitudes.”

Their cars were parked together at the far end of the parking lot under the street lights that were just starting to glow as the sun dropped beyond the horizon – Coulson’s non-descript black Charger, the Winchester’s Impala, J.D.’s old Jeep – and they wandered that way. Clint thought how odd the crowd was, a mixture of military, police, superheroes, hunters, spies, and a writer thrown in. Focal points indeed, he mused; how such disparate people ended up in this place at this moment was hard to explain. Drawn together? Maybe. Clint had certainly been drawn into Dean’s orbit from the second he saw the man standing on the ground below him with that impossible story about being an F. B. I. agent with the same name as a member of Queen.  Not that he believed in fate, but Clint had to admit his relationship with Dean seemed to have been unavoidable from the start.

Carol suddenly stopped, the blonde’s eyes darting towards Sam, a look Clint knew all too well. He wasn’t armed, but his bow was in Dean’s car. He saw Natasha draw her gun out from under her leather jacket, Sam fall back to guard the rear, and Dean take out a wicked looking knife.

“Get down,” Carol commanded.  “We’ve got incoming from three o’clock.”

Circling Marie’s wrist with his hand, Clint tugged her the last two steps until they were between the Impala and her brother’s Jeep, J.D. right behind them with his own gun at the ready. “Get in the car and stay there,” Clint instructed her. He opened the back door and urged her inside. “Slide me the case.”

They came over the grassy hill, black clothing disappearing in the twilight, nothing but their eyes visible, staffs whipping around as they attacked. Grabbing his quiver, Clint slammed the door, whirled as he unfolded his bow and notched an arrow. He took one down before they closed – at least ten by Clint’s count and more appearing.

“What the hell?” J. D. asked, crouched down using the car as a vantage point.

“Shoot to disarm, but take them out if you have to. They won’t hesitate to kill you,” was the only thing Clint had time to say to the detective before they were inundated. What he needed was a vantage point … and the IHOP had a flat roof. “Dean!”

“Go!” Dean replied. He charged two ninja fighter types … they’d never come up with a name for these guys … clearing an avenue for Clint to get to the drainpipe and hoist himself up. Sighting along the hill, Clint started taking out the ones still arriving, dropping them.  Carol lifted off the ground, bolts flying from her fingers. Natasha had already dispatched three and was taking on two at a time. Coulson was as bad assed as ever, calmly evading the kicks and punches, waiting for an opening. Sam was backed into the trunk of the Impala; J.D. hit Sam’s attacker in the leg, knocking the man backwards. In all, it looked like they the situation well in hand; Clint had a second to wonder at how easy taking these guys down was this time as compared to the first encounter he and Dean had with them. 

That’s when he heard the roar and saw the shambling shapes come out of the darkness at a fast run that belied their monstrous size. Bigger than any bear Clint had ever seen, the animals looked like a cross between a grizzly and the mythical yeti. Then one of them stood on its hind legs and walked towards the cars. Clint aimed and fired, his arrow glancing off the hairy hide and harmlessly bouncing onto the concrete. He changed tactics and heads, going for the net and focusing on one of the bear things in the back of the herd. The net expanded, bolos wrapping around the burly frame; within seconds, the creature was free, ripping through the rope like it was spider webbing.

Guns barked, Carol whizzed by firing, then swooped and smashed into one of them, her strength knocking it backwards. It shook its head and got right back up. “What the hell are these things?” Sam shouted.

“Goddamn magic. Try silver.” Dean slashed at one, knife drawing a line in the hard skin, blood flowing as it screamed in pain. “Must be weres or something.”

“Werebears?” Natasha asked. “Great.”

Switching over, he drew back the silver headed arrow, carefully chose his spot and let it fly. Towering over J.D., the bear thing roared as the missile sank into its back, massive claws trying to reach behind for the thing causing it pain. It swung its arm, slamming into the Jeep and pushing it closer to the Impala.

“Oh, hell, no!” Dean spun and grabbed J.D.’s arm, yanking him out from between the cars before the sound of metal scraping against metal heralded the two vehicles coming in contact. “Oh, you are so paying for that, Bigfoot.” 

With only a handful of silver arrowheads, Clint tried to pick his shots for maximum effectiveness … the eye socket, the joint between shoulder and arm, the throat … disabling one of them long enough for the silver to begin its job of spreading poison through the creatures veins. And there were still the black ninja types to contend with, more joining the fight.  Clint spent some arrows protecting the civilians who ran out of the restaurant to gawk; too many others were slowing down on the street to rubberneck, making them vulnerable. When Carol grabbed a werebear, wrestling it as she flew up and then dropped it, cars screeched to a halt as it rolled out into traffic, regaining its feet and rushing back.

The scream came just before the crash; Clint whipped his head around as soon as the string vibrated with the forward force. One of the bears had flipped J.D.’s Jeep over onto its side, pinning a black ninja fighter beneath it – so much for teamwork on their side – and was swiping at the Impala, butting its head into the heavy metal frame. Clint reached for another arrow, but he was out. Dean was the fastest; he sliced with his knife then danced back before darting in again, catching the creature across its broad stomach. Then Dean’s luck ran out; an angry paw sideswiped him, and he flew backwards, slamming into Sam, both of them collapsing, a very pissed off animal pouncing on them.

“Dean.” Clint didn’t shout, but he grabbed the lip along the outside of the roof and swung over, preparing to drop to the ground when the arrow embedded itself in the exact place he was just standing. The blast went off and the concussive force hurled him to the ground, knocking him unconscious.

 


	8. She Blinded Me with Science

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's not to love about an archery contest between Artemis and the World's Greatest Marksman?

**NOW**

“You had no right. It was my power and I can take it back.”

“A gift is a gift. You know that.”

“Who do you think you are? You are as powerless as I am, more so since father expelled you all.”

“You think to bargain with such as Morwen? She will kill you as soon as she returns. I would save you from yourself.”

“Why? Why do you care?”

“For the good of this world, its continued existence. Morwen is the end of our time and I, for one, have a fondness for living.”

Clint slowly surfaced, awareness coming into focus. He catalogued the aches and pains while lying perfectly still. Scrapes, bruises, nothing sharp enough to be a break; seems routinely jumping from exploding perches was good practice after all. He distinctly remembered hanging off the roof just after Dean had gone down beneath one of those bear things … right, Artemis, were animals, full moon, goddess of the hunt. At least that made sense.

“Don’t pretend to be so magnanimous, Hyperion,” Artemis said. “Suddenly you care about more than yourself? Ha. I don’t believe that.”

“Over time, even the most intransigent soul can learn new ways. We have to quit fighting amongst ourselves; there are enough believers yet to keep us all empowered if we shared.” The titan sounded so reasonable, but the implications of that plan were scary. The gods fighting amongst themselves meant they had less time to mess with humans. A bored god was too much of a threat; working together would only make that worse.

“Consolidate and then grab it all for yourself is more like it.” She didn’t sound convinced. “At least Morwen is a force for the feminine. I tire of men’s posturing.”

“Chronos started this with his megalomania and appetites; it’s a curse upon the whole family and will be our undoing. If you persist on this path, you will unleash the destruction of this world for what? The want of one man who never even knew you?”

“Orion is worth the whole lot of my supposed family. It is Apollo’s fault he’s dead and Apollo will know my pain when Morwen returns.” Artemis was moving closer; Clint breathed deep and even, keeping up the pretense. “All I need is the chunk of my power you gave this human and I can rectify that.”

“You’ll kill him. It’s bonded to his soul now, enhancing his natural abilities. He’s a man after your own heart. An archer. Never misses. A hunter with eyes like a hawk. Are your followers so numerous you can afford to turn you back on one of your own?”

“He was your choice, not mine. He’s no more mine than one of those damn Winchesters who call themselves hunters.” Scuffing of boots on the floor and Clint steeled himself to not react if she touched him. “I’ll deal with them shortly and be done with all of this.”

“Silly girl. I wash my hands of you then. But know that I will stop you if you try to aid Morwen.”

Clint heard a whoosh of air and then fingers brushed along his bare forearm.

“Stupid old man. Afraid of what could be.” A breath stirred Clint’s hair above his ear. “Don’t you agree, little archer?”

“Personally,” Clint said because, what the hell, the woman was bat shit insane, “I think he’s got a couple of valid points like not killing me, for one.”

Her laugh was high and shrill. “Of course, you’d agree with that. You humans always beg to live. But you have something of mine.”

“Didn’t ask for it, but you’ve got to admit, I’ve put it to good use.” Clint opened his eyes and got his first up close look at Artemis. They’d met once before, only for a few minutes, and Clint had been a little distracted by the werewolf virus that had just been injected in his body.  “Not exactly a virgin, though. Didn’t know that was in the job contract.”

“Oh, I could come to like you. I think I see why mother is so taken with the two of you. Struggling so hard last night to get to your lover. Surely you understand then how strong a connection true love can be.” Her eyes were the color of summer leaves, shades of green that reminded Clint of the forest. Brown hair curled around her perfectly symmetrical face, long past her shoulders. She wore a green silk blouse and a brown leather jacket that fit her petite frame. Muscular, not thin at all, her body curved in all the right places.

“Sorry, but no. Aside from the whole ripping out my soul part, letting that psycho bitch loose in the world? Now, I don’t know this Orion dude, but I’m assuming he had to be pretty super human to grab your attention. And I do know a little about people who are superheroes; I can safely say they don’t take too kindly to aiding and abetting super villains.” Clint used the trick of looking out of the corner of his eye while still maintaining eye contact with her. From what he could see, he was laid out on a bed in a hotel room, the generic décor and paintings of covered bridges in the fall.

“It tickles me when you play at being more than the fragile creatures you are. Like an antelope believing it’s a tiger.” She stood up and glared down at Clint. “I am the one who hunts the tiger; you are nothing to me.”

“Wow, egotistical a bit? No wonder Orion chose to be a constellation instead of you.” Clint knew he was pushing it, but she seemed poised to lose control and maybe he could take advantage of that.  “Wait, I remember the story now. So anxious to prove you’re the best shot, your loving twin got you to target something in the ocean. Tell me, would it have mattered at all if it hadn’t been Orion, just a random innocent person? Would that have bothered you?”

“You can’t understand. Loss of face in my world means being devalued; I had to take the challenge to prove I was the best.” She clenched her fists, a clear tell.

“What I understand is you let your ego get the best of you and you’d do it again in a heartbeat.” Clint pushed up on his elbows, winching to telegraph his pain. “What was the distance anyway?”

“750 meters.” Even claiming Orion was the love of her life, she was proud of her accomplishment.

Clint shrugged. “Decent. Recurve, I assume?”

“My bow made for me by Hephaestus.” Her brow knitted as she tried to follow Clint’s line of thought.

“Ah, so magic then. Hmmmmm.” He let the silence drag out.

“What? You think I couldn’t do the same with a regular bow? That is without question.”

“It’s just that … 750 meters? … yeah, I shoot longer distances in battle all the time. Now, granted, sometimes I’m using the composite Tony enhanced, but there’s nothing like hitting the mark with my classic wooden recurve.”

“No. You are trying to confuse the issue. Even with my power, you couldn’t do that.” She practically stamped her foot in frustration.

“I can call up some footage on YouTube if you like from the Battle of New York or the one with the squid monsters just last month. You have a tablet?” Oh, yes, this was going to work; he could tell by the way her shoulders straightened and her nose crinkled.

“I am the Goddess of the Hunt. No man can outshoot me,” she declared.

“Tell you what. I’m so sure of the outcome that I’ll bet my life on it. A target, smaller than a man’s head, at 750 meters. If I win, I get to live and you walk away from helping Morwen. If you win, well, you can have your power back.”

“And if we both hit the target, we keep going out by 50 meters at a time until one of us misses.” She smiled, and Clint could see why the ancients Greeks were terrified of their so-called gods.

“Done. But we’ll need impartial judges and seconds.”

“Agreed. We each choose a judge and the third is someone impartial.”

“I know exactly who to call.” The plan that was forming in Clint’s mind was crazy … but then the best plans usually were.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

“This is your plan? Get her?” Dean quipped, favoring his left side. He’d gotten scored across his ribs on the right and was bruised up and down where he’d slammed into the car, but, overall, things could have been much worse. After Clint had been captured, the black robed fighters and the werebears had retreated and Dean had been spared worse. “If she asks if you’re a god, be sure and say yes.”

“You’re just pissed because I didn’t ask you to be my second.” Clint ran his hand along the elegant curve of the custom Bear Grizzly bow that Bill Oakes had brought.  First thing Clint asked for was two brand new bows, exactly the same model, unstrung with added limbs. Since Tony was footing the cost, J.D. had brought a selection of the best the local shops had available with his aging father in his wheelchair. Stark had brought Clint’s own modified compounds on the jet, along with Steve Rogers, Bruce Banner, and, yes, Thor. Sam blinked when the men walked down the ramp; Dean just shook his head. This whole thing was getting out of hand.

“If you build it, they will come,” Dean mumbled. “And exactly why do you not want me to hold your shafts?” Okay, maybe he was a little annoyed.

“Because you distract me.” Clint grinned. “A big crowd of onlookers? All we need is some pie and we’re set. And maybe handcuffs. I might miss the target thinking about it.”

“You’re cocky.” Dean shouldn’t have been surprised at Clint’s confidence, but, still, going up against a god could be tricky. They were lying little bastards to a toga.

“You’d know,” Clint shot back. Damn, but the man was arrogant. Yeah, that turned Dean on; he was grinning as they bantered.

“Are you ready?” Coulson asked; as Clint’s second, his job was to oversee the details of the wager.  “If Hera pinches my ass one more time, I won’t be held responsible for killing her.”

“Hey, the woman has good taste,” Clint laughed. “I can’t believe Artie asked her mother to be her second. I thought they hated each other. You know Hera spread the news to the others.” 

It had been Crowley who made bleachers appear along the shore of Norris Lake and Bacchus was selling wine by the bottle or glass and an array of sweets and baked goods, including pies. Dean noticed. Gods and goddesses mixed with Titans – Hyperion had his daughter Selene with him – and Dean didn’t know who all of them were, just that they gave him the heebie jeebies. Too many gathered in one place for his comfort.

“And you called Tony who can’t keep a secret to save his life.” Coulson eyed the assembled Avengers. Tony had brought pizza from Big Ed’s and was sharing it with Gabriel, among others. Good God, someone needed to separate those two. Dean felt the hairs on the back of neck standing up when Tony glanced his way. Natasha, Jessica Drew, and Bobbi Morse all sat together – the Scarlet Witch couldn’t make it – and Steve, Bruce, Johnny Storm and Logan were polishing off two extra larges as they waited. Kali’s back was ramrod straight and she glanced curiously at the red headed assassin; Dean saw Gabriel turn his attention to the elegant goddess beside him and wiggle his eyebrows Natasha’s way. Oh, that was an even worse idea.

“I needed an impartial judge.” Clint shrugged, nodding towards the judges’ table.  Predictably, Artemis had chosen Melikki, the Norse goddess of the forest, well, the Midgard version of the Melikki. Clint had asked Thor for his choice both out of his perverse sense of humor and the fact Thor would take this seriously. He’d declared himself honored to oversee a warrior’s challenge, although he glared at the ‘thing with his cousin’s name’ when he’d sat down at the table. For her part Melikki had the brains to look uncomfortable being near someone with even more god status than she had. Didn’t stop Hera from trying to hit on the big blonde; he’d very curtly turned her away.

For the third, objective judge, Artemis had suggested Hyperion, but Clint trumped her with his pick … JARVIS. No one could argue with a computer A.I. measuring the distance and projecting real time video of the hits for the crowd. Accepting a program as a person was surprisingly easy for the quasi-divine types; they were comfortable with people being constellations and turned into trees, so JARVIS was an easy sell.

“Sam!” A female voice captured Dean’s attention. Hecate walked across the grass, straight towards where Sam stood with Carol. Awkward … Dean nudged Clint and jerked his head his brother’s way.

“Hecate.” Sam’s voice was pleasant, but that was his ‘oh-my-god-what-do-I-do-now’ look. Hecate sensed the tension, catching her bottom lip with her teeth to refrain from smiling. “It’s good to see you again.”

“I must say I’m excited to see Clint shoot without worrying about my own skin. Forgive me, I’m Hecate, and you are?” She held out her hand to Carol.

“Carol Danvers.” Carol’s blue eyes saw the blush staining Sam’s face.

“Captain Marvel? It’s a pleasure. I have a weakness for strong women,” Hecate’s gaze lingered on Carol’s face before doing a quick survey along the lines of her body. “And I have no problem sharing as long as everyone agrees.”

“Ah, um, yes, well, I …” Sam sputtered and tripped over his tongue in an effort to say anything resembling words. The two women looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“I think you broke him,” Carol said, linking an arm through Sam’s and tugging him towards the stands. “Come on. Let’s sit down and discuss this like civilized adults.”

“That was worth the price of admission,” Clint said. “You owe me, bucko. I know you enjoyed that little scene.”

“Poor Sammy. He has a way of picking them, doesn’t he?” Dean laughed.

“Let me in on the joke, boys. I need some lightening up; my daughter is the biggest wet blanket in the world. How I gave birth to that virgin morass of emotional angst, I’ll never know.” Hera came up behind Phil; he jumped, grimaced, and swore under his breath. “We could blow this joint and have some real fun. I bet perfect suit here has a real daddy kink. You could be our bad boys who need punishing.”

“Shall we get started?” Coulson asked.  Dean smothered a laugh at the man’s discomfort.

“All work and no play, little agent man. You good undercover? I bet you are.” She laughed and copped a quick squeeze of Coulson’s cock.

“With all due respect, ma’am, you touch me again and I will take you out.” Coulson’s voice was cold but full of promise.

“Paper clip? Oh, how about a peacock feather? I’m pretty sure Dean has a couple,” Clint said.

“You don’t have to ugly about it.” Hera pouted, a dangerous glint in her eye. “Just say no.”

“No.” They all three spoke at the same time.

“Fine. Fine. The coin toss then. After the handsome young hunter sits down. No cheating.”

Weighted balloons stood in for a human head;  Tony and Hermes took them out 750 meters, dropping the anchors when JARVIS certified the distance. Clint lost first draw, winking at Dean as Artemis strung her bow with the string Phil handed her. She complained at the light weight and the quality as she took her stance, gauging the distance, the wind and the currents that made the targets bob up and down. Her form was perfect, a textbook example of how to shoot a bow, and with the tiniest curl at the corners of her mouth, she released the arrow with an audible twang, watching it arc over the water. On the screens, everyone could see it pierce the balloon in the center. A smattering of applause from the audience, mostly the non-human side.

“Good shot.” Clint strung his own bow and took the brand new arrow offered him. His eyes still on Artemis, he drew and shot in one fluid motion, the arrow flying straight to its target.  His form was shit, and he knew it; the man did learn to shoot in a circus. “A bit of a head wind, isn’t there?”

A cheer from the other seats; Dean leaned over to Sam. “God, he loves a crowd.”

“Are you mocking me, mortal?” Artemis’s eyes flashed with anger, and Dean had to give Clint credit. He certainly knew how to drive people crazy. Of course, Dean liked that specific trait in a man.

“Just putting on a good show, ma’am.” Clint swung out his arm in an overly dramatic bow. “Always leave them wanting more, that’s my motto.”

“Move the targets back 50 meters,” Artemis demanded. “We keep going until you miss.”

“You mean until one of us misses,” Clint corrected her; she gritted her teeth and nodded.

When Clint hit the next one with ease, the goddess resorted to pouting. Then the next one she demanded be further out with more wind; Thor obliged, kicking up some clouds and whipping waves across the lake’s surface. She took longer to make her shot; Clint stopped flirting with Dean long enough to wing an arrow out into the balloon without batting an eye. She stomped her foot, shouted for more wind and a better bow; they traded out for compounds that most men couldn’t break, but Clint kept matching her, arrow for arrow, winning over the crowd with his witty comebacks and flourishes.  Dean wondered how much of Clint’s cheekiness she could stand before she blew completely.  It didn’t take long; one more round and she tossed the compound aside and pulled a bow made entirely of silver out of thin air.

“Let’s end this. One last shot. The biggest storm your pretend god friend can muster. You use my bow and I’ll use yours.”

Clint pretended to consider it; the man was a born performer. Everyone around Dean was whispering, Stark talking in his normal voice about billing Clint as a demi-god if he won and planning whether Clint would have male or female priests.

“Done. Phil, let’s go with Vera,” Clint said. With a snort, Dean rolled his eyes at Clint’s name for his high tech, Stark designed baby. Thor, however, looked unhappy as he stepped to the shore and spun Mjolnir above his head; he clearly didn’t like Artemis’ attitude.

The air crackled with electricity and Dean slid his hand into his pocket, palming the EMP pulse and exploding arrowhead he had tucked there. Taking her stance, Artemis curled her fingers around the string of Clint’s bow with a look of intense concentration; she paused for a second, and Dean wondered if she was having trouble breaking it. Then she drew and fired; without JARVIS’s abilities they wouldn’t have been able to see the arrow hit the impossible small and wildly heaving target.

“Beat that,” she said, smugly, tossing Clint’s bow back to Coulson.

“I’ll do even better.” Clint said. “Light it up, gang.”

Those in the know worked together in one smooth wave; Carol blasted plasma bolts, Tony’s repulsors fired, Sam began chanting the spell, and Thor turned the storm up two more notches. All of them aimed their attention to a spot out over the water where a swirling cloud began to form.

“What are you doing?” Hecate asked Dean. “You’ll bring her back!”

“And end her once and for all,” Hyperion answered; he’d appeared n the seat behind them. “Although this may be overkill with the number of catalysts.”

“Hey, go big or go home,” Dean answered, then turned to Hecate. “Want to help out a little? Crossing the streams that is.”

“You want to … that will …” The Goddess of Magic stared at him then a smile crawled across her face. “Oh, yes, smart men are so sexy.” Touching Sam on the shoulder, she added her voice to his.

Dean jumped from his seat and ran over to where Clint and Coulson stood.

“What is the meaning of this? You are cheating!” Artemis shouted over the sound of the winds that were tearing at their clothes now.

“Did you know that the town of Loyston disappeared under the water here when they built the dam and made this lake? And that John Loy, the town founder, built the town on an old Cherokee trail that ran through the mountains? This is where the volunteers mustered for the Battle of King’s Mountain; before that was Fort Wautaga, one of the first Forts on this side of the Appalachian Mountains. It was destroyed by Cherokee warriors in a fierce attack. Things get fuzzy but oral histories say the Great Thunder and his two sons lived here,” Clint explained.

“What does that have to do with anything?” The Goddess of the Hunt demanded.

“It means this is a node, with close to thirty powerful beings to focus cosmic energy at the same time,” Hera answered. “You clever, clever boy. I wish you were mine instead of this lovestruck idiot over here.”

“Then you couldn’t flirt with him,” Dean said.

“You, however, need to read more if you think that would stop me.” Raising her hands, she wove a spell so potent, Dean felt the hackles on the back of her neck rise.

“Mother!” Artemis protested. “You’d do it for father, I know you would.”

“Oh, darling, all you had to do was ask and I’d have moved heaven and earth to help you. Breaks my heart to see you conspiring with that witch,” Hera said, standing in her own little pocket of calm, looking as lovely as ever. “Now shit or get off the pot, dear.”

“I sort of like you right now,” Dean told the older goddess. “And that scares me.”

“Dude, take the smokin’ hot red head instead. I’d pay to watch the threesome of you and her and Robin Hood.” Gabriel only raised an eyebrow when Dean gave him a ‘what the fuck’ face; Dean had long ago learned not to bother being surprised by Gabe’s entrances. He snapped his fingers and  the cloud solidified. “Seems my girl doesn’t like competition, and what makes Kali happy …”

The crack began as the faintest glimmer, then a zig zag of light that shifted in spectrum, lengthening before it started to crack open. Orange light spilled out and the storm exploded; like fireworks that rattled the ground under their feet, stars flared and Morwen stepped through, incorporeal, body made of the cosmos, hair strings of glowing molecules that made up the universe.

“Artemis, dear, you brought me so much more than I asked for.”  Her eyes were twin black holes surveying the scene; her gravity pulled on the power of the gathered beings. “Such a good little girl.”

“You promised.” The goddess had Clint’s bow aimed and ready to fire. “I want my power and Orion.”

Peals of laughter that sent waves of meteors shooting across the sky, slamming down and digging furrows across the ground.  “You want power? Oh, my child, I will give you so much more than you can imagine.”

She expanded, tendrils curling out to grab Artemis and sink into her skin. With a violent shudder, the goddess cried out as Morwen took her body, implanting herself into the powerful frame. Dean reached out, trying to pull Artemis away, but he was too late.

“Boys, boys,” Artemis/Morwen said, tossing the bow aside and spreading her arms. “I knew you were insanely sacrificial, but this is so far beyond that. You let her bring me back to do what? Cast me out once again? I hate to break the news to you, but where Strange sent me? The very fabric of time and space itself all mine to play with.”

“Well, you got us. We decided to invite you over for beer and pretzels. Oops.” Dean went with whatever came out his mouth. “Come on, now, bet the cappuccino wasn’t that great over there. Don’t you want to hit one of those high priced coffee shops and get an espresso?”

“Oh, I am going to let you live, you and your little friends. I’ll need someone to be my slaves. I bet you’ll be excellent in bed.” She paused, ran a hand down the curves of her hips. “A virgin? Oh, yes, this will be enjoyable.”

“See, now, there’s one problem with that plan. We’re not going to let you do it,” Hera spoke. “Give me my daughter back, you bitch and I’ll kill you quickly.”

“You can try, but remember where your power came from in the first place.” Artemis/Morwen pointed her finger at Hera and the older goddess stumbled back, crying out as a glowing fist squeezed her tight.

“Conditions are at optimal, sir.” JARVIS’ voice carried through the storm and then all hell broke loose. Everyone who could aimed their weapons – blasts, bullets, spells, thunder – at the opening between worlds.

“What are you…” Artemis/Morwen scoffed, but bits of her started to break free and tumble back towards the rift that was beginning to waiver. “Never going to work. I’m too powerful.”

“Filled with wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff, right?” Clint shouted to be heard over the tumult. “Like calls to like, bitch. Right here, at this nexus point with all these catalysts?”

“No!” More and more, pulled into the gravity well of the event horizon, pieces were dragged back into the fluctuating gap. “I will take this form with me!”

“And the downside is?” Dean shrugged.

“I’ll just come back again. Find another way.”  They could see them both now, Morwen’s shimmering figure a shadow, floating over the waves, tethered by strands of magic to Artemis’ physical form.

“Oh, you’re not going through, babe,” Dean took out the arrowhead and tossed it to Clint. Coulson passed Clint an empty shaft and in seconds, he had the arrow notched, string drawn on the magical silver bow.  “Let’s show this prehistoric bitch how we do things downtown.”

“I curse you, all of you, you hear me! I am the primal goddess, the forces of all that is …” She broke apart completely, the stuff stars are made of streaming into the rift. Clint’s arrow flew straight and true, mixed with all the other energies. Just as Morwen’s face dissolved and lost its form, the explosion blinded Dean. He covered his eyes with his arm, bracing himself against the backwash that rolled over them.  Confusion reigned for a few seconds, and then an eerie silence fell.

“We came, we saw,” Dean said before anyone else spoke.

“We kicked her ass.” Clint finished the quote.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ghostbusters happy in this chapter, I know. Not sorry.


	9. What's Love Got to Do With It?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A party, a muscle car, some pie, and some 80s music. What else do the guys really need?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having fun with 80s music here as we wind this story up. There will be more hunterhawk coming ... time for Dean to enter Clint's world of supervillains and superheroes for the next round. :)

One of the benefits of being one of the world’s wealthiest men was the ability to throw an instantaneous party. Food appeared on the picnic tables of the nearest pavilion, a band showed up within 30 minutes and a master mixologist from nearby Knoxville was shaking martinis and cosmopolitans at the hastily erected bar. Bruce Banner was busy eating sushi from Kabuki Fusion and Tony was enjoying the ribs from Calhoun’s. The banana pudding from Sweet Pea’s was disappearing fast; Steve Rogers was working on his second big helping.  The band, a local group, was mixing swing with classic rock and, somehow, it worked. Clearing the tables off the concrete, people started dancing, the strangest mixture of superheroes, deities, SHIELD agents, and others.

Artemis had left in a huff after demanding Clint declare her the winner which he graciously did. Dean was surprised by how easily he gave in because that last shot was one in a million in more than one universe. Still, technically, Artemis had fired the last successful arrow in terms of the contest and Dean didn’t miss her wet blanket personality. Might be sexist to think it, but Artemis could really do with some healthy, energetic sex and glass or two of whiskey.  Dean was certainly not opposed to that idea himself; now that this problem was solved, he knew Clint would be back on SHIELD business in the morning, so they had only one more night together.

Searching the crowd, Dean saw Sam sitting at a bench, his long legs stretched out before him and his back leaning against the tabletop. Carol was beside him, hand on his thigh, and Hecate was perched on the table, Sam’s shoulder pressed against her hip, her hand tangled in his hair. Oh, yeah, that was definitely going to be interesting. No way in hell Sam would let him watch, and Dean had plans to be busy anyway, but, damn, a three way with a goddess and a superhero? Their cut of the pay-per-view would fund them for a long time. Catching his brother’s eye, he winked and saluted him with his beer bottle. Way to go, Sammy, he mouthed. Sam rolled his eyes, but his grin was wide and infectious enough to put Dean in an even better mood.

Crowley’s black hair bobbed into sight; he was dancing with Hera – and someone should put a stop to that little confab right now, but damn it Dean wasn’t going to break in. Hera already coveted his ass enough as it was. The King of Hell was an energetic dancer, an eclectic mix of 1940s ballroom and body slamming that Hera matched step for step.  They bumped hips like they were in _Saturday Night Fever_ or something and Dean felt nauseous.  At another table, Thor raised a bottle and slammed it back, drinking it all in one gulp before setting it in a line of other empty bottles. His drinking partner was Bacchus and wasn’t that going to be an epic battle? Dean paused a moment to wonder just how deep Stark’s pockets were before he moved on.

Bruce Banner, such a contradiction from his big green alter ego, was talking with Mielikki. Dean couldn’t blame the scientist; the Norse goddess was blonde, all slim muscles and quiet voice. Unlike Odin, that old blowhard, his daughter was quite affable after a few drinks, and, yeah, Dean had flirted a little. Just because he was currently … engaged … didn’t mean he was blind. Clint had thought it was funny, anyway, and Mielikki had gently shot him down.  She seemed a better fit for Banner anyway, with her love of the world, and an environmental stance that dovetailed nicely with the man’s stand on things like fracking. Not that Dean had been reading up on the Avengers. Nope. Not at all.

He finally found Clint talking to Gabriel and Kali. Gabe had provided a whole table of every decadent dessert Dean had ever heard of, including seventeen different types of pies, and Dean had worked his way through four already. The plan was to swipe a few to take with him when he talked Clint into blowing this popsicle stand, particularly the Double Chocolate Cherry and the Turtle Pecan ones. Those looked perfect for later. Turning his head, Clint glanced over and, damn it, the man knew exactly what Dean was thinking because he just calmly raised an eyebrow and dropped his eyes to Dean’s crotch before going back to his conversation.

“Before you run off,” Stark said. “Check your phone.”

Rather than ask, Dean pulled his phone out and tapped on the message notification while Stark waited. A bank statement opened and Dean’s eyes widened at the amount listed there. “What the hell is this?”

“Standard consulting fee for Stark Industries. JARVIS estimated your billable hours and, of course, we started you out on a lower pay grade since you’re new to the system. I know SHIELD offered you a deal, but I can cut you a better one AND I’m in no way affiliated with the federal government or law enforcement. If you prefer off the books, we can do that too, but the benefits of contractor status are pretty extensive including a complete reboot of any and all … and I do mean all … prior records and personal histories.”

“Yeah, had that done before. Didn’t take.” Dean shook his head. The money was good … really good … but working for anyone still made him feel uneasy.

“Amateurs. The key is not to erase it all … God, that screams ‘terrorist’ when there’s absolutely nothing there or the name just suddenly appears. No, you take the real facts and clean up, change a few pieces here and there; I left a couple of the vandalism charges, a few of the good police reports, that weird grave desecration thing in that southern town … I would love to know what you were up to on that one … and just enough to look like the kinds of things private security contractors would get into. Add in a second set of look-a-likes that are easy to pull up and go ‘oh, you mean these guys’ and, trust me on this, no one will know you’re the same Winchesters.” Tony grinned. “Yeah, I’m that good.”

“You already did it?” Dean wanted to get angry, really he did, but Tony Stark was like that. Act first and damn the consequences and, well, takes one to know one.

“Consider it a gift whether you take the job or not. And the money is non-negotiable. You did the work, it’s an untraceable transfer, so shut up and stay in a decent hotel for once. Just let Clint know what you decide while you’re doing the horizontal mambo sometime, okay?” Tony tipped his almost empty martini glass at Dean. “And while we’re on the subject, pictures, dude. There are far too many sex photos of me on the internet. Legolas over there needs to catch up. Just fuzz up your face and let me broker the sale.”

Dean let the man go; he really was a piece of work.

“I’d say Tony means well, but I know him. He really would sell them.”

Natasha Romanoff, a woman he’d been steadfastly avoiding, stood on his other side, watching Tony leave. In the midst of the music and chatter, she calmly surveyed the room, no doubt planning how to take them all out in two minutes or less.

“Actually, I kind of understand Stark. Smartass mask that protects his soft dangly bits. Good taste in porn actresses.” Dean knew it well since he went with snark most of the time as his first defense. “And, for the record, I really like my soft dangly bits right where they are, thank you. What do I have to do to keep them there?”

She smiled, a real honest-to-god smile with white teeth and crinkles at the corner of her eyes. “Oh, you two are so alike, aren’t you? How do you not filet each other with those tongues?”

“We use them for more enjoyable pastimes, although there is something to be said for sass as foreplay.” Good God, Dean thought, what the hell was he saying? This was Clint’s best friend who could strangle a man with just her thighs … and what a way to go that would be, huh?  Might be third on his list of preferred deaths behind ‘in his sleep’ and ‘during sex.’

That one got him a chuckle and Dean figured he was going to survive this little encounter. “Be that as it may, Clint seems to like your … what did you call them … soft, dangly bits? … so I’d prefer to not have to cut them off. Just don’t hurt him and I think we’ll be fine.”

 “Yeah, about that, look, I don’t have any intention of hurting him, but, well, I’m pretty screwed up if you hadn’t noticed and shit seems to happen to me, so, best case scenario, I piss him off and he hates me but is alive and well. Worse case … let’s just say I’m thankful he’s as much of a bad ass as he is.” Dean shrugged because it was all true. “Basically, all I can promise is I’ll fuck it up at some point and, really, it’s his choice in the end whether to do this or not.”

“I notice you didn’t leave an option for a happy ending,” Natasha said.

“Out of my realm of experience.” Dean nodded towards the crowd. “This is more my speed. Just surviving and moving on.”

“Are you sure you’re not Russian?” She asked and her smile was back.

“Whatever you said must have been the right answer,” Clint offered, his warm hand settling in the small of Dean’s back. “That’s a high compliment.”

“Shut up.” Natasha punched Clint in the shoulder, hard. “I like him, so don’t muck it up.”

Dean watched her walk away. “Damn. She’s completely and utterly hot. Might have to tap that after all.” She turned and arched one elegant eyebrow at Dean before heading straight towards Kali. “Or maybe not.”

“Wrong equipment, dude. Glad to see Kali’s into boys or I’d really be worried.” Clint eyed the introduction of two powerful women and grimaced a little as the Indian goddess took Natasha’s hand.

“Actually, Kali is indiscriminate in her lovers,” Castiel said from beside Dean. Clint jumped and Dean sighed.

“Cas.” No use trying to explain personal space for the twentieth time. Cas never seemed to grasp the concept.

“I do not think, however, that a relationship between the two women would be able to bring about an apocalypse. The estimated casualties would be relatively small.”

“Really? You sit around and figure those sorts of things out?” Clint asked.

“There are angels whose job it is to do just that. Cupids. They ensure certain bloodlines are continued and other unions prevented based up the percentages,” Cas stated. “They are in charge of watching for catalysts like you and keeping you apart.”

“Obviously, they’re not very good at their jobs,” Clint said.

“Yeah, well, if you met one you’d understand.” Dean wasn’t all that impressed with the lesser angels. Could have something to do with them being naked. “Why are you here, Cas? Is something wrong?”

“Yes and no. Morwen is gone, her atoms scattered into far too many worlds to be put together again like your Dumpy Egg.”

Clint looked at Dean who mouthed ‘Humpty Dumpty.’ “Okay, what’s the downside?” There was always a downside with angels. Always.

“I did mention that the more of you are gathered in one place, the more the likelihood of unintended consequences?” Cas asked, serious eyes turned their way.

“I remember something about that, yeah. Three for the rumble with Lucifer was a lot, Hyperion said,” Dean answered.

“There are more than three here,” Cas said, scanning the people around them. “Do you honestly think there will be no repercussions from what’s happened today?”

“Hey, you’re the one who said she was a big baddie. So we went for a big bang,” Dean argued. What difference did it make? They were fine, Morwen was toast, and there were pies to be eaten.

“Big bang, indeed.  We’re still feeling the effects of the creation of the universe, Dean.” Cas was so serious as he looked them both over. “Right now, I can’t see what this moment has wrought, but, believe me, there will be ripples for a long time to come.” Then he was gone.

“Dramatic exits all around, it seems,” Clint groused. “You going to worry about that pronouncement of doom?”

“Tomorrow. The world is always ending so I think I can have one night off, don’t you?” Dean drained the last of his beer and tossed the bottle into the growing recycle bin. “And speaking of exits …”

“I was coming to show you this.” Clint dangled a key in front of Dean. “Look what J.D. passed over. Seems Bill stashed the Chevy in his garage and kept it running. Needs some TLC, but she’ll drive us back to the hotel if you don’t mind Sam taking the Impala.”

Dean could read Clint’s intent in his eyes; the man planned to christen the car and Dean couldn’t find any fault in that, considering the times they’d already been in Dean’s car. “Give me a second to tell Sam and I’ll be right with you.”

Sam smirked, damn him, when Dean told him; Hecate and Carol were nice about the whole thing and Dean promised himself to give his brother grief tomorrow when they were on the road again.  Gabriel appeared with two boxed up pies with that shit-eating grin he had that said he knew exactly what the plans were for the evening. Thank God the newly-returned-from-the-dead Archangel didn’t say anything; Kali motioned and he slouched over to where she sat talking to Natasha. Dean got to give Gabe a smirk at that one.

Clint made it to the Chevy with a six pack of bottled microbrews in both hands. Stowing their bounty in the back, Clint slid behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition. The engine fired up with an easy purr that turned to a rumble when Clint gave it some gas.

“Shit,” Clint breathed. “That’s a good sound, isn’t it?” His blue-green eyes sparkled as he popped the car into reverse and backed out onto the small side road. Flipping on the headlights, he resisted the urge to floor it, depressing the pedal slowly, keeping a reasonable speed through the state park until they turned onto the two lanes that led back to town. Then he put on some speed; the Chevy smoothly accelerated, rumble turning to a full-throated roar of a muscle car. “Oh, hell yes.”

They drove for a time, just meandering along different kinds of roads – winding mountain one lanes, out on Interstate 75 and back off again to 25W, a double highway. The heater worked all too well, so they rolled down the windows to let in the cooler air and turned up a classic rock station. Dean didn’t feel the need to talk, just enjoyed the sense of a job completed and a moment without a looming crisis. Finally, Clint turned onto Melton Lake Drive, winding along the Clinch River, and he pulled off into one of the small parks that ran along the edge of the water, a gravel parking area hidden among trees with nothing more than a couple picnic tables and one metal BBQ stand.  Raising an eyebrow, Dean asked without asking.

“I hear this is the best place to come watch the submarine races.” Clint fiddled with the radio, switching the stations until he tuned into 93.1 halfway through Pat Benatar’s “Love is a Battlefield.”

“Lover’s lane, dude?” Dean had to laugh. Leave it to Clint to find a way to ease into sex. “What, are we 17?”

“Nah, we’re adults with pie and beer and 80s music. Just go with it.” He faked a yawn and stretched his arm out along the top edge of the bucket seat. “I’ll still respect you in the morning.”

Dean nudged him sharply in the side with an elbow as he reached over to get two bottles. “Okay, but if you knock me up, Sam will find you with a shotgun.”

They shared a laugh and a drink before Clint spoke again. “So, here’s how I see. I’m going make a move on you, and we’ll get all hot and heavy for a bit. But I’m getting old and my knees aren’t what they used to be, so after a good blow job for each of us, I figure we head back to the nice big bed in the room and I can fuck you slow and thorough first. You can have a turn later after the pie and the shower.”

Pretending to think it through, Dean nodded. “Sounds like a solid plan, except there should be some pie here too. We’ll need to recoup before the second round anyway.”

“Done.” And Clint leaned over and ran his thumb along Dean’s stubble, tracing the line of his jaw to his ear and then back to his lips. He dragged the calloused pad along the edges of the upper lip then across the full lower one before he slid his whole hand around the side of Dean’s face, cradling it as he brushed his lips against Dean’s.

Modern English’s “I’ll Melt with You” came on and Dean’s laugh was caught up in Clint’s mouth. In retaliation, Clint started humming along and the vibrations ran down Dean’s spine and pooled in his crotch, stirring his cock’s interest in the proceedings.

It had been years since Dean just sat and kissed someone with no other goal in mind. Knowing they didn’t have to rush things freed him to just enjoy the slide of lips against lips, the way Clint clenched his fingers in Dean’s hair, and the steady beat of Clint’s heart under Dean’s hand that was splayed on his chest. They shifted and settled more comfortably on the seat, Clint moving out from behind the steering wheel and Dean turning his body to the left, opening his legs so Clint could switch hands and rest his left on Dean’s thigh. So much skin to be tasted; Clint shivered when Dean nipped at his earlobe and Dean bit back a moan when Clint found the little v at the bottom of his throat.

They kissed through a series of commercials, the news at the top of the hour, then Culture Club’s “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me,” The Rolling Stone’s “Start Me Up,” (Dean actually sang along quietly in Clint’s ear with that one as Clint’s hands slipped under his t-shirt and his mouth sucked little round bruises down the side of Dean’s neck), and through the extended version of Dead or Alive’s “You Spin Me Round.”  Condensation formed on the rolled up windows despite the cooling ticks of the engine; neither of them felt anything but heat as they added touches, light and easy, that caused little tendrils of warmth wherever their fingers went. More music played but it faded into the background, a soundtrack underneath lips and hands and quiet breaths.

The news cycled again before Clint’s fingers unbuttoned Dean’s jeans, and then time slowed even more. Eyes closed, his head laid back on the seat, Dean dropped one arm on the door’s arm rest and curled the other over Clint’s shoulder, burying his hands in the short brown hair. The whole night narrowed down to the feel of Clint’s mouth on him, the rasp of tongue along the sensitive flesh of Dean’s cock, the barely there drag of teeth, the touch of cheeks as Clint sucked hard then released, and the warmth of Clint’s palm as he cupped Dean’s balls. Slow, achingly so, Clint played with him, working him up then slipping off to kiss him on the mouth before returning to his cock.

“In my life, there’s been heartache and pain.” Lou Gramm’s voice came out of the speakers as Dean groaned, gripping Clint’s head and bucking up into his mouth. “I don’t know if I can face them again.” Muscles tightened and he arched up as he came. “I’ve traveled so far to change this lonely life.”

Clint sat up, wiping his thumb along the corner of his mouth to catch the stray liquid, sucking it in his mouth, and Dean dragged him in for another kiss, tasting himself on Clint’s tongue. Then he was pushing Clint back against the seat and fumbling with the button fly jeans. Clint’s cock was hot and heavy in his mouth as he slipped down; Dean banged his head on the steering wheel once before he shoved Clint into the door, pushing a leg up on the seat, opening him wider and taking him in all the way to the root. Dean dragged it out through Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer” and Prince’s “Kiss” but the opening notes of AC/DC did them both in. Dean squeezed his fingers around the base and sucked hard as Clint climaxed with a loud groan just as Brian Johnson sang “She told me to come but I was already there.”

“Perfect timing,” Clint said with a breathy laugh. “The walls were shaking, the earth was quaking …” he sang.

“Hey, 1980 counts right?” Dean arranged himself and zipped back up before picking up his beer and passing Clint his. “No better way to christen a car than with AC/DC, man.”

Headlights illuminated the inside of the car; an older model Toyota Camry pulled in not far away. The driver cut the engine and the doors opened. Four teens piled out, carrying a cooler and a Coleman lantern. The kids glanced over at the Chevy and Clint turned the key, an unspoken agreement that now was a good time to leave.

The hotel was quiet when they got there; no one was in the lobby or the hallway to even blink at the pastry boxes and beer.  Clint used his key card to his junior suite; sitting the boxes on the table, Dean opened the first one to find small tarts nestled together. The second turned out to be chocolate bourbon with a pecan crust after a taste test that elicited a moan of pleasure from Dean’s happy mouth.  Over the last few days – or however you told time when you were jumping around in it – they’d gotten used to sharing a room, so Dean kicked off his boots and shed his outer shirt, pulling a chair close enough to prop his feet up on the bed as he ate. Clint picked a strawberry tart and did the same, rolling his shoulders a couple times before he sighed and settled. They shared the quiet for a few minutes of chewing and swallowing, alternating bites with beer.

“So. Tony’s offer.” Clint looked at Dean from the corner of his eye, watching for his reaction.

“I distinctly remember tonight’s agenda and talking about life shit wasn’t on it,” Dean replied. “Parking. Blow job. Hotel. Pie. Fucking. Shower. Fucking. Sleep somewhere in the mix. That’s it.”

Clint took another bit and waited.

“Yeah, fine, you know how I feel about it. Connections mean people can trace us; last thing we need are more files with our names on them.” Dean’s frustration was mitigated by the fact he was eating an amazing piece of pie and had already gotten off once tonight. Plus, he was going to have more of both, so, yeah, he wasn’t that upset.

“Tony’s different than SHIELD. Did he wipe your profiles? He usually does that. After New York, I woke up one day to find that all my juvie records were gone. Not just sealed, gone. He means well; only way Tony knows how to say thank you is with money or by doing stuff for you. After I saved his ass one time, he made me my own floor in Stark Tower. Plus, he’s just as paranoid about the government and official agencies as you are, maybe more.” Clint twisted off the top of another beer, tossing it into the trash can on the other side of the room. “All I’m saying is take the money; you know you’re going to help if something weird ass comes up again and Tony can afford it. That’s a lot of pie he’s offering.”

“Jesus, okay, okay. We’ll take the money, but we’re not working for him. It’s a one-time thing.” Yeah, right, Dean knew he was blowing smoke. If one of the Avengers called again … or Coulson … he and Sam would be there. And not having to look over his shoulder every time he talked to a cop or sheriff? That was pretty damn nice.

“One-time. Sure.” Clint nodded, knowing it was bullshit. “Not like we didn’t just spit in the eye of Fate and invite new crazies to come on down.”

“That should be the Winchester motto. Crazy ass monsters, come on down!” Dean laughed; he was really relaxed and the banter only helped him come to terms with having money in a bank account somewhere for once in his life.

“Now that that’s solved,” Clint sank his balled up napkin into the garbage can as well. “Can we move on to the fucking part? It’s been like, 30 minutes, dude,” he said in his best ‘80s voice. “Like, we can put on some tune, oh my god, and totally rock out while I blow your mind.”

Dean hit him square in the chest with his bottle top. “No way you’re getting anywhere near my ass with that Valley Girl shit.”

“Ass, shit … I see what you did there.” Clint stood, shucked his t-shirt and shimmied out of his jeans, and left them in a pile on the floor. “Mood music. That’s what you need.” He tapped a few times on his Starkphone and Olivia Newton John’s “Let’s Get Physical” started playing.

“Oh, no. Hell no. Rock or nothing,” Dean insisted, but he was kicking off his own jeans and stripping down just as Clint started dancing around, singing along. Catching up the phone, Dean swiped at it, going back to the station selection and hitting the tab for classic rock of the 70s.

“Hey,” Clint grabbed it back and they started wrestling for it, Clint taking Dean down on the bed and both of them squirming around. Arms outstretched, Clint switched it again, coming in halfway through Madonna’s “Like a Virgin.”  He pinned Dean underneath him, both of them laughing; Dean surged up and kissed Clint, distracting him long enough to get the phone and flip over to the Doobie Brothers’ “Taking it to the Streets.”

Back and forth they went, bodies sliding together, hands grabbing, knees planted, holding each other down, first one then the other. If their cocks rubbed together far too much to be accidental, well, Dean wasn’t going to complain. The trash talking about music was fun and the distractions moved from kissing to long licks to sucking little bites across exposed skin. When Clint caught the edge of Dean’s briefs and yanked them down, Dean rolled out of them and did the same to Clint; at some point, the phone slipped off the edge of the bed, silent now, and they barely noticed, content to sing snatches of songs at each other instead. Clint did his best Tina Turner impression when he managed to get on top of Dean, using his weight to hold him face down on the bed while slick fingers opened Dean up, lube and condom ‘magically’ appearing.

“You must understand, oh, the touch of your hand, makes my pulse react,” he crooned and Dean forgot everything except the burn and pleasure of Clint’s touch, his voice rich in Dean’s ear, going straight to his cock. When Clint lined himself up, his hands pressing down on either side of Dean’s waist, pulling Dean back until his ass was in the air and his chest flush on the bed, the song switched to George Michael and Clint sang the words as he slid inside.

“There’s things that you guess and things that you know. Boys you can trust and girls that you don’t.”

Dean closed his eyes and pushed back, urging Clint faster, but the hands just griped tighter and Clint kept the pace of the song with slow thrusts, all the way out and all the way in. Squirming, Dean tried to get his hands under him so he could lift up, but Clint wouldn’t give him any ground.

“Be patient,” Clint said, pausing with the tip of his cock just barely inside the tight ring of muscle. “We’ll get there.”

“You’re going to drive me crazy one day, you know that?” Dean said with a long groan as Clint eased back in, brushing right across the sensitive spot as he did.

“Oh, Prince. Right! I’ve neglected him, haven’t I?”

Half expecting “Let’s go crazy,” Dean got “Little Red Corvette” instead, Clint timing his thrusts to hit the beat of the song. When Clint plunged into and sang “Baby, you’re much too fast,” Dean started laughing at the absurdity of it.

“Stop it,” Clint laughed and groaned at the same time. “You clench up when you laugh.”

“Good.” Dean took the opportunity to try and break Clint’s hold, surging up only to be met by a hand in his hair, yanking his head back so Clint could kiss him.

“Fast it is.” Clint bit Dean’s lower lip, got up on his knees, grabbed Dean’s hips and snapped in hard. “Like this?”

“Fuck, yes,” Dean answered. When Clint set his mind to it, he could hit Dean’s prostate on every thrust and Dean saw sparks as they stopped joking around. Nothing but groans and gasps and grunts of pleasure as Clint fucked him, both intent on the final destination, Clint driving and Dean letting go to be taken home. Bed springs squeaked, sweat beaded on his forehead and ran down his spine, and Dean’s arms threatened to give out under the onslaught. Then Clint brought a hand around and stroked Dean’s aching cock once, twice, and Dean was gone, coming all over the bedspread, arching his back and grinding into Clint as he followed.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dean breathed when they collapsed together, Clint weighing him down. “You’re heavy. And if you sing ‘He ain’t heavy’ I’m going to smack you.”

Rolling onto his back and off Dean, Clint grinned. “I liked that, making you laugh while I was inside you. We’re putting that on the checklist.”

Dean turned his head to the other side to look Clint’s direction. “Checklist?”

“Sex in public … I’ll count the blow job in the Chevy since we were almost caught … pie sex … we’ve still got plenty of pie and you haven’t had your round yet … and now coital laughter.” Clint poked Dean in the shoulder. “Things we do when we’re together.”

“Then it should include getting shot at, tied up, and almost dying too.” Dean pushed himself up. “Dude, I’m in the wet spot. I think the whole freakin’ bed’s a wet spot right now.”

“Just the spread. We can take it off.” Clint’s eyes turned serious. “I mean it. I like this. What we’re doing. I want to keep doing it when we can.”

“I can’t make any promises,” Dean warned him. “But, yeah. I can do again if it works out that way.”

“Something tells me there’s always going to be some new big bad to deal with. Kind of like having you at my back,” Clint lifted up on one elbow. He kissed Dean then, a kiss that wasn’t a joke or rushed or dirty or frantic. It was the kind of kiss between two people who cared about each other and just wanted to remind themselves of that.

“Yeah. Me too.”  Dean said with a smile.

**THEN – 2 months, 7 days, 12 hours and 27 minutes in the future**

His name was Marvin. Marvin Denmead. He was silently cussing out his mother for making him mow the grass because it was his father’s week to do the big embankment behind their house, not his, but the bastard was working late, again, and couldn’t be bothered with stupid things like chores.  Marv, as he liked to be called, knew that his dad was really doing his secretary, the red headed bimbo he’d hired last month who couldn’t even chew gum and walk at the same time but looked damn fine in a mini-skirt. He’d seen the two of them coming out of the Fairlane Motel when he’d cut school last week to hang out with Jimmy at the pond. Not even subtle, Dad, he thought, swinging the push mower around and starting on the steepest part of the bank. Midlife crisis, that’s what it was. A toupee, a new car, and now an affair with his secretary – could his dad get any more clichéd? And then there was him mom, keeping her head down, running to her house showings, trying to keep her real estate agency afloat and take care of the twins while dad was out playing. She needed to get a clue and dump him before he left and took everything with him.

The mower jumped, almost bucked out of Marv’s hands and he panicked for a second, but, thankfully, the engine stalled and ground to a halt as it settled back on all four wheels. Rolling it out of the way, Marv put the break on and then went back to look for the rock or branch he’d hit. Bending down, he saw a glint of metal and brushed aside the cut weeds to find a round silver sphere about the size of a tennis ball with yellow designs traced along the curves. Curious, he held it up to the fading autumn light and squinted at it; the yellow shifted, forming words in a language he’d never seen. He jerked his hand back, but the ball stayed where it was, floating now, emitting a yellow light. Opening his mouth, he started to yell for his mom, but the flash enveloped him.

Later, when his dad stormed out of the house, pissed about the half-finished mowing job, Marv was nowhere to be found. There was nothing but the lawnmower, still in park, sitting halfway down the hill.

**Author's Note:**

> The Ridgeview Motel is a dump today, but in the 80s it was a real roadside motel, so I’m taking some liberties there. The Git Go is a chain of local convenience stores whose names are really Git ‘N Go Markets, but locals call them by that shortened name. Lynagh’s does have a great burger in Lexington. Ace Sporting Goods isn't in Clinton (I transplanted it) but it would be right at home there.


End file.
